


Meg and Benny's Excellent Adventure

by nagi_schwarz



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Mentions of Sam/Amelia, implied Meg/Jimmy Novak, show-level violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 11:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 84,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6193702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagi_schwarz/pseuds/nagi_schwarz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meg and Benny go on a roadtrip. Pretexting, hunting, LARPing, and bickering over music in the car ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Part I

  
>

 **Title:** Empty Vessel  
**Author:** Clairestiel  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Pairings/Warnings:** None/None  
**Summary:** Claire Novak is still out there. This is her story. Coda to _The Rapture_.

The first thing Castiel ever said to Claire Novak was, “I am not your father.” At the time, she’d thought he was her father, and she’d been terribly hurt by the words. She’d hurt even more so when she woke up the next morning and there was no trace of him. By the time her mother had convinced her that her father was dead, the words elicited only a low, distant throbbing beyond the walls of her emotional numbness. Numbness would help her survive. Later, when she learned the truth, it didn’t lessen the sting any. No, Castiel wasn’t her father, never had been, never would be. But he’d said those words in her father’s body with her father’s voice, angelic discomfort blanking all expression from her father’s face, and he’d hurt her. Her first meeting with a real angel, and he’d broken her heart.

The first thing her father said to her, after being missing and presumed dead for a year, was, “Hi, baby.” The emotion in his eyes, the inflection in his voice, that was her father, the man she’d missed and cursed and hated and loved every day for a year. When he was hugging her, stroking her hair, heaven was in reach again. Every day for a year, heaven’s light and warmth had grown dimmer and dimmer. Now heaven was back. She’d been baffled when, at dinner, her father didn’t want to say grace.

After having briefly been a vessel for Castiel, Claire understood that grace was something more vast, powerful, and terrifying than a few words of gratitude said over a meal.

The last thing Castiel ever said to her was, “Of course we keep our promises. Of course you have our gratitude.”

He’d promised to protect Claire and her mother. He’d failed, but he’d promised he would always keep her safe. Maybe she’d be safe from the world outside her body, but she’d never escape from the comet beneath her skin.

The last thing she ever heard her father say was, “Just take me.”

And then the comet was gone. And her father was gone. And she was left crying in her mother’s arms.

  


  


Meg learned all this from reading _Supernatural_ fanfiction on her smartphone, which she had kept hidden behind a magazine while ducking her nursing duties at the nuthouse where Castiel was being kept. She’d read the official books first, of course, and was entertained by all the times Sam and Dean were mistaken for a gay couple. She’d checked out some Wincest fanfiction on the grounds of intellectual curiosity, even though she was a demon and no depths of human depravity could surprise her. Having been in Sam’s body – and his mind – she knew that the actual likelihood of Wincest was terribly low. But she read because it was interesting. She was curious about what the fans had to say about her, about her possible origins. Was she a fallen angel? No. She hadn’t been injured by holy fire. Was she literally Azazel’s daughter, evil in mortality and united in in hell for unholy eternity? It wasn’t clear. Azazel had implied he had both a daughter and a son, and some of the suffering he inflicted on John Winchester was in vengeance for John killing his son. Were demons capable of feeling human emotions, having human-like relationships?

The speculation was amusing but in the end fruitless. Humans were clueless about demons, which was strange, seeing how the seeds of demons were in every human. So Meg had turned her fandom curiosity to Castiel. Some of the fans speculated about Castiel and Dean having a sexual relationship. It was baffling, how humans conflated just about everything important with sex – popularity, love, loyalty. It was baffling, but useful. If a demon wanted to get a human off the straight and narrow, sex was by far the best bait. But Meg was supposed to be semi-good now, helping the Winchesters and Castiel. She was supposed to be the demon Sam thought Ruby had been. 

Ruby. Oh, the irony. She always was someone else’s bitch – Sam’s, Lilith’s, eventually Dean’s on the end of a knife. Whatever Azazel might have called Meg, daughter or lover or anything else, she was her own demon. And she had plans.

For a while her plans had involved sitting beside Cas’s bed while he shivered and twitched in the grip of his hallucinations and she devoured fanfiction about Castiel and what he might have been like before he rescued Dean. Then she stumbled across fanfiction on Livejournal written from the perspective of Claire Novak, daughter of Jimmy Novak, Castiel’s vessel. Meg hadn’t given much thought to her meatsuit since she first took up permanent residence. She hadn’t given a flicker of thought to Castiel’s until the moment he kissed her. He learned to kiss like that from the pizza man, he’d said, which was baffling but amused Dean at the time.

Meg had read the unpublished ebook continuation of the _Supernatural_ series, and she knew it was the real deal if only because of her role in those events. So she knew Claire Novak was a real person, was descended from Castiel’s vessel, had once been Castiel’s vessel, and demonic though Meg was, she wasn’t sure she would have been as interested in Castiel had he been in a child vessel. So she wondered about that kiss, how much of it was Castiel and how much of it was Jimmy Novak. 

She read fictional Claire Novak’s Livejournal and was intrigued by the thoroughness of the story, the vividness of Claire’s memory of her father – and of Castiel. The fanfiction kept her company while she was babysitting crazy Cas. 

And it kept her company while she was roaming the wilds of Purgatory after Crowley stabbed her with an angel blade. As a demon, she figured she was a dime a dozen in Purgatory. At least, she had been till a group of Leviathan recognized her as the demon who helped the Winchesters end Dick Roman’s reign of gluttony and terror, and suddenly she was Purgatory’s Most Wanted. Damn Winchesters. Why anyone liked them, even fictional versions of them, was incomprehensible, because all they ever did was get the people around them hurt or killed in the name of carrying on as John Winchester’s wayward sons. 

Suddenly the whole Wincest thing made more sense. It had taken being trapped in a nuthouse with Catiel, then being trapped with Crowley for a year and tortured, then hiding up a tree in Purgatory, and too many hours spent reading fanfiction to figure it out. In the real world, there was pretty much nothing the Winchesters wouldn’t do for each other. In fact, the only thing they hadn’t done at this point was bone each other.

Huh.

Maybe Meg was just really tired from fighting off endless streams of Leviathans. So she curled her legs under her and flipped to her favorite chapter in Claire Novak’s _Empty Vessel_ series of novel codas (it was downloadable as an ebook, and she’d downloaded it the moment it became available – thanks, AO3).


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .

**Title:** Empty Vessel  
**Author:** Clairestiel  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Pairings/Warnings:** None/None  
**Summary:** Claire Novak is still out there. This is her story. Coda to _Free to Be You and Me._

“Hey there, Nutty Novak.”

The nickname might have been cute if, say, Claire had a thing for nuts. She did like cashews and almonds; peanuts were abhorrent. But the nickname wasn’t about her predilection for nuts. It was because some peroxide-haired bimbo at the front office hadn’t been able to keep her mouth shut with the wrong mom, and now the entire class – perhaps even the entire school – knew Claire had no dad because he’d gone crazy and abandoned her and her mom.

(She wished he was crazy. That was better than him having been an angel, because if he wasn’t crazy, then for a moment she’d been an angel, too. And she couldn’t tell a therapist that, but she needed someone to talk to, someone who would listen and not judge.)

Claire kept her head up, hitched her backpack higher on her shoulders, and continued walking down the school steps.

“Nutty Novak, didn’t you hear me?” The comment came from the tall, blonde, beautiful Janessa Lewis, the popular girl Claire might have become if an angel had never answered her father’s prayers.

Annabeth Martinez snickered. “No. She’s nutty. Can’t hear you over the angel voices in her head.”

The other girls laughed. Claire kept walking. She felt her chin begin to tremble, and she bit down on the side of her cheek to keep from showing any sign of weakness. _Keep your head up_ , her dad always said. _Show them who you are – a beautiful daughter of God_. Claire wasn’t sure she believed that anymore, but she remembered what it felt like to have an angel’s grace in her, to be unstoppable in the face of violence, and she drew on that now.

It didn’t work on teenage girls who knew nothing of demons, angels, Heaven, or Hell. Janessa caught Claire by the wrist and spun her around, almost sending her toppling down the stairs. Annabeth and the other girls crowded against her, trapping her against the railing. It dug into Claire’s back, cold and unforgiving.

Janessa fisted a hand tightly in Claire’s hair and wrenched her head back. She’d felt this sensation before, had a knife held to her throat by a demon wearing her neighbor.

“I could do anything I want to you,” Janessa whispered, “and no one would believe you if you told them, because you’re crazy.”

The other girls laughed. They’d been friendly at first, but then they noticed how Claire carried vials of salt and holy water in her jacket – her mother insisted – and that she wore an anti-possession charm, and they started ostracizing her, claiming their parents said she was a witch. So her mom went to the school counselor to explain what had happened to Claire, about Dad leaving, and then the girls started whispering about her, pointing fingers at her, giggling behind her back but falling silent when she came close. She knew the signs. Once she might have been a whisperer and a giggler. Now she felt fiercely sorry for every time she’d done it before.

This wasn’t the first time they’d laid a hand on her.

Claire refused to be afraid. She wasn’t afraid of them. They were regular teenage girls, not demons or angels. Or were they?

She said, “Christo.” (After doing a Google search for Sam and Dean, she’d found their criminal histories unenlightening and the _Supernatural_ series very educational.)

The girls laughed at her. None of their eyes turned all black.

“See?” Annabeth grinned at her friends, gleeful. “She’s crazy, talking in her made-up angel language.”

Claire had thought that enduring their hair pulling and pinches, slapping and taunting would make them go away once she proved an uninteresting victim, but she had forgotten how persistent humans could be. She’d prayed every day for a year to get her dad back even after Mom resigned herself to the fact that he was dead. 

She hadn’t prayed since the day her prayer was answered.

Instead, she’d relied on herself, being honest with her mother about where the scratches and marks came from. That proved equally fruitless. Since she hadn’t required hospitalization, the school recommended the girls and their parents work it out between them. Annabeth and Janessa had learned their cruelty from their mothers, who’d laughed in Mom’s face and told her that maybe if she got her little girl “fixed” in an institution so she learned to act normal, she would be able to have friends. 

Of the two approaches Claire had tried in her life, only one had worked, even if it wasn’t the way she expected. 

Janessa buried a knuckle between Claire’s ribs and twisted. Claire squirmed to get away, but Annabeth and the other girls held her fast.

“Will your angel come rescue you now?” Annabeth taunted. 

Janessa threw her head back and laughed. “He can’t – because he’s not an angel. He’s her dad, and he’s in the nuthouse. She should join him.”

Claire took a deep breath. “What day is it?”

Annabeth blinked. “What?”

Claire lifted her chin. “What day of the week?”

Janessa laughed. “She’s too crazy to keep track of the days. It’s a sign. My mom told me. It’s Thursday, Nutty Novak. Or is that too hard for your little insane mind to handle?”

Claire prayed. _Castiel, please. You promised._

Getting her dad back was a big deal. Getting away from bullies was trivial in comparison. Chances of Castiel answering her prayer were terribly slim.

But then she heard it, the beating of mighty wings. 

For one instant, she was back in that warehouse, tied to a chair while her demon-mother tried to kill her father and an entity the size of the Chrysler building tried to cram itself into her thirteen-year-old body.

“Claire Novak. You prayed for me.”

His voice was deeper, rougher than Dad’s. How had she ever thought he was Dad? Except he was wearing Dad’s nice dark suit and his lucky blue tie and the coat Claire had picked out for him their last Christmas as a whole family. 

Janessa’s grip on Claire’s hair loosened, and the girls turned. 

“Who the hell are you?” Janessa demanded.

Annabeth saw it first. Everyone who met the Novaks for the first time saw it. Claire had her mother’s blonde hair and slender frame, but she had her father’s face and smile. 

Annabeth guffawed. “Is this your dad?” She noted how his tie was askew. “He looks just as crazy as you.”

“Step away from Claire Novak,” Castiel said. Authority rumbled beneath his voice, deeper and more resonant than any teacher could ever exude. 

Janessa closed her grip on Claire’s wrist, threatening to twist. “Make us.”

Claire said, “Don’t hurt them. Just make them leave me alone. Please.”

Castiel tipped his head to one side quizzically, something her father had never done. “They have injured you. Repeatedly. And the adults have done nothing.”

“The adults don’t believe in angels, either,” Claire said. 

“I have learned from Sam Winchester that believing in angels is usually more pleasant than knowing they are real.” Castiel flicked his wrist, and suddenly he was holding a long silver blade, too short to be a sword, but long and sharp enough to look very dangerous. 

Annabeth snorted. “That’s not a real knife. It’s fake. Look at it. Knives don’t look like that. And he’s not an angel. He’s just Claire’s crazy dad.”

“Where did he come from? How did he even know we were here?” one of the other girls asked. 

“I came because it is Thursday and Claire Novak prayed for me.” Castiel’s eyes narrowed. “You. Step away from my vessel’s daughter.”

Another girl spoke up, one who’d hung back. Claire had barely seen her face. Which was why she hadn’t seen the girl’s eyes flicker black when she’d uttered the name of The Lord. 

“Castiel,” the girl said. “I didn’t think angels were capable of sentiment. Protecting your vessel’s daughter like this is terribly sentimental – and human. Is that the scent of siphoning grace on the air?” She sniffed theatrically, a hellhound on the hunt for a fresh soul.

“As I said, she prayed, and it is Thursday.” Castiel switched his grip on the knife, settled into a combat stance.

Janessa shifted nervously. “Emily –”

“Our Father will be pleased to know he has another form of leverage against you,” Emily said, but there it was, the demonic undercurrent to her voice. Claire had no more angelic grace, couldn’t see a demon’s true face. But she could, it seemed, still hear its voice.

“My brother will never know if you do not return to him,” Castiel said. There was another sound like the flutter of mighty wings and suddenly Castiel was all the way up the steps, looming over them, and he placed his hand on Emily’s forehead. 

“Wait!” Claire said. “Don’t kill her!” She still had nightmares of corpses scattered across a warehouse floor, blackened and empty eye sockets smoking. 

Castiel paused. “I am an angel of the Lord. I must smite evil. And if the demon returns to Hell, it will carry news of your location to Lucifer.”

“Mom and I can move again.” Claire wasn’t sure if that was true. Moving so often was expensive, and Mom was working for minimum wage. 

Castiel tilted his head again. “I see. Witnessing another death would be distressing for you. I will handle this elsewhere.”

And then he and Emily were gone. The other girls screamed. Janessa and Annabeth ran. The other girls scattered in their wake.

Claire was left at the top of the stairs, paralyzed. Once again, her prayer had been answered, but not in the way she intended. Had she just caused another girl’s death?

Seconds, minutes, hours, or an eternity later, Castiel reappeared. He carried an unconscious Emily in his arms, and a dusty earthenware jug dangled from his right pinky. He laid Emily at Claire’s feet. 

“There are still those in Jerusalem who can banish a demon from a host and kill it before it returns to Hell.”

Claire dropped to her knees beside Emily, checked her pulse like EMTs did on TV. “You took her all the way to Jerusalem? For me?” Emily was alive. It was a miracle. Claire hadn’t caused anyone else to die. She was shaking with relief. She wanted to cry.

“I was already on my way there. For some holy oil.” Castiel hefted the jug. “I need to trap an archangel.”

Claire blinked. “Oh. Good luck with that.” She tilted her head back to look up at Castiel in her father’s body. There was no sign of Jimmy Novak behind those pretty blue eyes. “And Castiel. Thank you.” For answering her prayer. For saving her from the bullies. For not killing Emily.

He inclined his head. “I am an angel. I keep my promises till I die.”

And then, amidst the beating of mighty wings, he was gone. 

It had never occurred to Claire that angels could die. She fished her cell phone out of her pocket and called 911. Then she sat with Emily. She cried and cried and cried and waited till the ambulance came. 

Janessa and Annabeth ostracized Emily after that. Emily avoided Claire. Claire was free from Janessa and Annabeth, at least till Mom found out what had happened and decided it was time for them to move again. 

  


  


Meg had read the sad, pathetic episode where Sam ran off on his own to play make-believe like he was a bar-back and Dean tried to take Castiel to a hooker. There wasn’t a hint or trace of Jimmy Novak’s family in the book. Of course, Claire Novak’s blog was fanfiction. But given how Crowley thought to track down Dean’s quasi-family, she was surprised that no one went after the Novaks sooner, especially since Claire was also a vessel for Castiel.

If Meg had been the demon out to eliminate Castiel, she would have eliminated his back-up vessel. Surely the Winchesters would have also thrown themselves into the line of fire to save little Claire Novak. Sam was so dewy-eyed and empathetic, and Dean had a soft spot for kids. It would have been a triple-play. Candy from babies and all that. 

Growling from the base of the tree reminded Meg that she wasn’t the demon out for anyone anymore, that she was the demon with Leviathans out for her. 

How many Leviathans did it take to topple a tree topped by a demon?

Meg cast about for another tree she could jump to, but it was hopeless. Her affliction for Castiel had been her downfall. Maybe riding around in Sam Winchester had affected her more than she wanted to admit. That boy was one giant sack of sentimentality – and vengeance. Reading all those books had ruined him when he was a kid. Well, she was a demon. She’d apprenticed under Alistair. She was going down swinging.

It took precisely eight Leviathans – one hanging back like a government contractor, barking orders but not actually helping – to topple the tree. Meg was ready, landed feet first on the pile of Leviathans. She was a demon. She could do this with her bare hands. 

Even though it took only eight Leviathans to topple a tree, they liked to fight in much bigger packs. Now there were fifteen of them. They’d come to Purgatory wearing the faces of their final meals. There was something viciously satisfying about tearing into Tom Cruise, Oprah Winfrey, and that snotty guy who owned Virgin Everything. 

Meg snarled and lashed out, but she’d telegraphed her moves too much. They’d caught onto her rhythm. The Leviathans caught her arm, grabbed the other, and then damn. She was pinned. Next time she got topside, she was going to pick a pretty Israeli soldier as her meatsuit. 

Dirt and twigs dug into her spine and scalp. Everything in Purgatory smelled like ozone. Her last view of the sky was dull, flat, gray.

The government contractor Leviathan threw his head back, and his jaw unhinged. All those teeth. Designed for maximum carnage in minimum time, human and angel and demon alike.

Meg spat into his open mouth. 

His head went flying.

Half of the Leviathans turned on the interloper. Meg glimpsed a dark cap, a scruffy jaw, and broad shoulders beneath a dark coat. Her rescuer – or more dangerous predator – was male, humanoid.

She surged free. 

When the fight was done, she was nose-to-nose with a caucasian male humanoid. He had solid, masculine features, sly blue eyes, and a vampiric grin.

Recognition lit in his eyes. “Meg,” he said.

She eased back into a fighting stance. “So good to see you, stunt vampire number thirty.” She couldn’t recall having killed any vampires while she was topside, but she’d been topside in many forms for many, many years.

“Name’s Benny,” he said. He had a soft Southern accent, not like one of those rough-and-tumble cowboys or burning-cross-in-the-front-yard white trash trailer dwellers, something smoother and more velvety.

“Don’t tell me.” Meg straightened up. “A vampire from New Orleans?” That was even more clichéd than a sparkly vampire. She might have waste a cliché vampire just on principle.

“Louisiana,” Benny said. He was clutching a weapon that looked like it was made of dinosaur bones, sabertooth tiger teeth, and obsidian. “But not New Orleans.” He lowered the weapon deliberately. “Castiel told me about you.”

Meg’s mind spun. When would Castiel have told a vampire about her? And then she remembered. Minutes before her death, wielding a can of spray paint alongside Sam Winchester. A pathetic tale of love, normalcy, loss, and betrayal. Benny was Dean Winchester’s vampire BFF from Purgatory.

And he knew a way out.

Meg straightened up. “Ah. Yes. Benny. Sam told me about you.”

Benny snorted. “All bad, I’m sure.”

“He was just hurt because Dean thinks you’re better in bed.” Meg flashed him one of her most winsome and unsettling smiles. “He also said you know a way out of here. How about we team up? A little Bonnie and Clyde action.”

Benny blinked at her. “They died.”

“Been there, done that, did it again, now in Purgatory. So, what do you say?” Meg studied him. In Purgatory, her ability to read another being’s mind was dampened. Or maybe she’d just never tried to read a vampire before. Benny’s expression was calm, amused, but she had no clue what was going on behind his pale eyes. 

“The way out’s only any good if you’re human,” Benny said. “I had to hitch a ride out with Dean. Besides, you seem just like your boyfriend – a trouble magnet.”

“Castiel wasn’t my boyfriend,” Meg said flatly. She knew an angel’s grace would draw all kinds of attention down in Purgatory, and not just because Castiel had been the one to open the door and then slam it shut. Demons weren’t nearly the same kind of magnet. At least, Meg hoped so. Most of the Leviathans she’d had to dodge previously had stumbled upon her in their murderous wanderings by sheer chance before they attacked. If Benny didn’t want to help her, he was no friend, but was he an enemy? She eyed his strange weapon again.

Benny huffed. “I’m pretty sure if someone ever matched the description of thorny pain and beauty, it’s you, little lady.”

So Castiel had been crazy even in Purgatory. He’d seemed more or less sane the last time she’d seen him. Meg raised her eyebrows. “You were pretty good back there. With the stabbing and the slaying. We should get jerseys. We make a good team.”

“I’m not on anybody’s team,” Benny said. “I just want to survive.”

Meg smiled. “See? We _are >_ on the same team. I’ll watch your back, you watch mine. We’ll last longer that way. Maybe we can find another way out.”

“There’s a back door to Hell somewhere in this place,” Benny said. He cast a glance at their surroundings – trees, more trees, gray sky, Leviathan corpses – and then started walking. Meg trotted to keep up with him. Why did she always fall in with tall men?

“I know Sam found it, but this place...changes.” He raised his eyebrows at Meg, who nodded. 

She’d experienced similar disorientation, which was probably why when she’d first climbed that tree there had been possibility of escape, but a few hours facedown in her smartphone – magically, the thing’s battery hadn’t died, though it had no signal – ended with her trapped. “Well, the longer we stay alive, the greater our chances of stumbling across the doorway to Hell.” She grinned. “I know my way around Hell.” She’d climbed out more than once.

Benny kept walking, glanced at her sidelong. “All right. But if you fall behind –”

“I get left behind. I know.” Meg cocked a brow at him. “I see Dean’s educated you in the ways of pop culture.”

“I wasn’t that old when I died the first time,” Benny said.

“I was.” Meg fell into step with him. “So, tell me about your time with Dean.”

“We killed things. We stayed alive. We got out.” His tone was clipped, brusque. 

Meg nodded. “Okay, then.”

Benny peered down at her from beneath the shadow of his cap. “So, an angel and a demon. That’s at least as cliché as a vampire from New Orleans, isn’t it?”

“Call us Megstiel.”

“Megstiel? Ah. As in Meg and Castiel. Like ‘vampirate’. Dean, I’m guessing?”

“Not just Dean. Have you ever heard of fangirls?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Title:** Empty Vessel  
**Author:** Clairestiel  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Pairings/Warnings:** None/None  
**Summary:** Claire Novak is still out there. This is her story. Coda to _Dark Side of the Moon_

Claire was at her desk, glaring at her geometry and listening to The Band Perry’s “If I Die Young” when she heard it, the beating of mighty wings.

She froze. She hadn’t prayed to Castiel in months. She and Mom had moved again. How had Castiel found her? Was it another angel? 

“I need to borrow your iPod.”

Claire turned slowly.

Castiel stood between her bed and the window, wearing the same clothes she’d seen him in last time – the same clothes she’d seen her father in for the last time. He looked pinched, worried.

Claire reached out, tapped the home button on her iPod Touch, paused the music. “What?”

“Your iPod, or a radio, or some other sort of media device,” Castiel said, gesturing impatiently. “Please. It’s Dean. And Sam.”

Claire remembered the two men: tall, strong, rough-looking, the kind of men her mother always warned her not to make eye contact with when they were at rest stops on long road trips. If she hadn’t been Castiel’s vessel, she wouldn’t have understood his worry and affection for them. Dean was the closest thing an angel could have to a best friend. Castiel had waged war on Hell, cut Dean free from Alistair’s rack, restored him to mortality. Dean was Castiel’s raison d’être, object of platonic affection, and comrade in arms all rolled into one. Sam was corrupt, laden with demon blood, a monster from infancy, but important to Dean, so he was important to Castiel as well.

Claire held out her iPod. “Um. Here. It’s not an iPhone, though. You can’t call them.” Couldn’t he just go to them if they prayed? Wasn’t that how it worked? Or did he only come to her because she’d been his vessel, the same way he’d answered her father’s prayers? She’d researched, and she thought – she was sure – that Castiel answered those who were born on a Thursday or prayed on a Thursday. What day was it today?

Castiel peered intently at her iPod, and then he set it down on the edge of her bed, knelt beside it, and started chanting. Claire felt it, the buzzing, thrumming, vibrating of an angel’s power. It built in her bones and sang through her blood until it was ringing, shrieking in her skull. She clapped her hands over her ears, hunched over, trying to drown the sensation out. What was he doing? Would Mom notice? Castiel kept chanting, swaying oddly, voice not quite musical, and then her iPod screen lit up.

The buzzing sound stopped. 

Claire blinked.

Castiel tapped the screen experimentally. “Dean!” 

“Cas?” Dean’s voice, tinny, emitted from the iPod.

Claire gaped. Didn’t magic ruin electronic devices? That was always how it worked in books and movies.

“Yes, it’s me.” Castiel squinted at the screen.

“You gotta stop poking around in my dreams. I need some me time.”

Castiel shook his head at the iPod. “Listen to me very closely. This isn’t a dream.”

Claire wondered if _she_ was dreaming. She looked down at her geometry homework. She pinched herself. Definite pain. She was awake. Where was Dean?

“Then what is it?” Dean asked.

Castiel said, “Deep down, you already know.”

There was a long silence. Claire darted a nervous glance at the door. Had her mother sensed the thrumming of angel power? She could still see demons, Claire knew, but she never talked about it, just insisted Claire carry holy water and salt with her at all times. The kids at this school thought Claire was weird, too, but there had been no new Janessas or Annabeths, just loneliness.

Dean said, “I’m dead.”

Claire gaped again.

Castiel nodded once, sharply. “Condolences.”

“Where am I?”

“Heaven.”

What the crap? Heaven was in Claire’s iPod?

“Heaven? How did I get to Heaven?” Dean sounded as bewildered as Claire felt. He’d been destined for Hell the last time he died.

“Please, listen. This spell, this connection, it’s difficult to maintain.” Castiel’s forehead was furrowed with concentration. 

Dean said, “Wait, if I’m in Heaven, then where’s Sam?”

Was Sam in Hell? He had all that demon blood in him. Claire bit her lip. It wasn’t Sam’s fault. He’d been a baby.

Castiel made an impatient gesture. “What do you see?”

“What do you mean, what do I see?” Dean demanded.

Castiel actually rolled his eyes. “Some people see a tunnel or a river. What do you see?”

“Nothing.” Dean fumbled. “My dash. I’m in my car. I’m on a road.”

Relief crossed Castiel’s face. Only a few months since Claire had last seen him, and already he’d learned so many more emotions. “All right. A road. For you, it’s a road. Follow it, Dean. You’ll find Sam. Follow the road.”

Claire was struck with an irrational urge to sing out, “Follow the Yellow Brick Road!”

Then the glow from the iPod died down. Castiel prodded it, frowned. He looked up, caught Claire’s gaze. Still no Jimmy Novak behind those blue eyes.

“This needs more power. I –”

Claire fumbled in her desk drawer for an AC adapter and a USB charging cord. She held them out, but Castiel just looked at her blankly. She rose up and crossed the room, showed him how to plug her iPod into the little outlet below the window.

“Here,” she said gently. “If you do that again, maybe leave it plugged in?”

Castiel nodded. He flicked his wrist, and then he was holding that shiny silver blade. “Do you have any silk?”

“No.” Money was tight, and even before then, Mom hadn’t been one for buying Claire silk anything.

“Fine-twined linen?”

Claire had no idea what that even was. “Also no.”

Castiel’s brow furrowed. “Do you have anything to write on?”

“Oh. Sure. But we write on paper these days. Just so you know.” Claire kept glancing at Castiel out of the corner of her eye as she moved to pull some paper out of her binder. Geometry could wait. She was afraid that if she looked away for too long, she’d miss a moment when her Dad would surface, call her Claire-bear, give her a hug.

She handed Castiel a piece of paper. He asked for several more. She obliged him and then watched, curious, as he arranged the papers in a circle, iPod in the middle, and pricked his fingertip with his blade. Blood welled up, and he set to drawing. The symbols he drew weren’t like anything Claire had ever seen before, but then she wasn’t much for digging up ancient languages.

Castiel drew a circle around all of the symbols, and the iPod screen lit up again.

“Cas!” It was Dean’s voice.

“I can hear you.” Castiel hunkered down on the carpet next to the corner of Claire’s bed, legs folded beneath him awkwardly.

“Cas. Hey! So, I found Sam, but something just happened. There was this weird beam of light.”

Castiel grimaced. “Don’t go into the light.

Dean huffed. “Okay. Thanks, Carol Ann. What was it?”

Who was Carol Ann? Clearly Dean meant it as an allusion, but Claire was confused. 

Castiel ignored the allusion completely. “Not what, whom. Zachariah. He’s searching for you.”

Claire remembered Zachariah in the Bible, the father of John the Baptist. Judging by the look on Castiel’s face, he wasn’t speaking of the same Zachariah.

“And if he finds us?” A different voice. Sam.

“You can’t say yes to Michael and Lucifer if you’re dead, so Zachariah needs to return you to your bodies.”

Claire froze. Michael the Archangel. Lucifer the Devil. So many people at their old church group had insisted that the crazy tsunamis, earthquakes, and storms from right after Dad left for the last time were signs of the Apocalypse. Mom called them crazy, said they were quacks, that they didn’t know anything about angels. They still thought angels were good.

Maybe they were quacks. They could also be right about the Apocalypse. Claire opened her mouth to ask a question, but Castiel held up a hand.

Sam said, “Great! Problem solved.”

Castiel shook his head. “No. You don’t understand. You – hm. You’re behind the wall. This is a rare opportunity.”

“For what?” Dean asked.

“You need to find an angel. His name is Joshua.”

Joshua. Yeshua. Jehoshua. Jesus. Was that who Castiel meant? Was Jesus real? Claire’s pulse stuttered.

“Hey, man, no offense, but we are kind of ass-full of angels, okay?” Dean sounded thoroughly annoyed. “You find him.”

“I can’t. I can’t return to Heaven.” The words came out clipped, choked.

Claire’s throat closed. Castiel was banished? Fallen? Was he a demon now?

“What’s so important about Joshua?” Sam asked.

“The rumor is, he talks to God.”

Claire’s heart thumped. Jesus was real.

“And so?” Dean sounded annoyed.

Castiel rolled his eyes. “You think maybe – just maybe – we should find out what the hell God has been saying?”

Claire reared back, shocked. Castiel swore! She knew angels weren’t like in books, but –

“Jeez, touchy,” Dean said.

“Please,” Castiel said, “I just need you to follow the road.”

Sam asked, “What road?”

“It’s called the Axis Mundi.” Castiel explained how they could find Joshua in a Garden. The screen on Claire’s iPod, which showed nothing but bright white light as far as she could see from where she knelt opposite Castiel, began to flicker.

“The Garden. Quick. Hurry.”

And the glow from the screen faded.

Claire prodded it. “Is it broken?”

“It has done what no mortal device was meant to do,” Castiel said. He snapped his fingers, and then he was holding a wad of cash. “Purchase a new one. I must go. Thank you, Claire.”

And he was gone, with the fluttering of wings.

Claire stared at the bloody symbols on the papers on her floor. Then she gathered them up and tucked them away in her scripture bag – her mother never touched it, never mentioned the Bible anymore, let alone God or angels or prayers – and went back to her desk to finish her geometry. If Castiel could summon money like that, why hadn’t he summoned a TV or radio or iPod of his own?

“Does that thing get a signal?” 

Benny and Meg had dared to stop near a river and rest. Benny was making another weapon, axe-like, with a handle made of a bone he’d plucked from the leftovers of their last encounter with Leviathans, while Meg read some more on her phone. 

“Yes. America’s largest LTE network includes Purgatory. Any country that has a chain of restaurants called Biggerson’s is in cahoots with Purgatory.”

“I did originally mortality before the age of smartphones.”

“If this thing did get a signal, d’you think I’d still be going around the un-world in eighty days with you?”

“I’m surprised that device followed you down here, let alone that it works.”

“You’re a vampire. I’m a demon. Logic ceased applying to both of us long ago.” But Meg closed her ebook app and fixed her gaze on Benny, studying him. He had large, strong hands, a laborer’s hands. She was impressed by his dexterity as he twined fibers to make rope. She’d helped him create said fibers by tugging boughs from a nearby tree and stripping off the leaves, but after a while he stopped giving her instructions so she retreated into her own little safe place in the imaginary world of fictional Claire Novak.

“We still have rules.”

Meg grinned. “You’ve run with the Winchesters. Rules are made to be broken.” Whatever rules might have applied topside didn’t apply here. There were days and nights, yes, and she had discovered she could be tired as well as energetic, but she never needed to sleep, and she never needed to eat.

Benny slewed her a sidelong glance. “Is that why you think we’ll get out of this place?” Yellow-brown fiber flashed between his fingers, fast becoming rope.

“You made it out before. We can do it again.” Meg picked up the length of rope trailing away from Benny’s hands. It was coarse, but thick and strong. “You weren’t kidding when you said you were going to make a weapon.”

Benny arched an eyebrow back at her. “Why would I kid about something like that?”

“I noticed that many denizens of Purgatory have weapons similarly-styled,” Meg said. She nodded at Benny’s piece. Instead of a single obsidian blade, the end of the bone shaft was studded with razor-sharp chips that looked like so many black teeth. One end of the bone was artfully wrapped with rope for a grip. “I figured I’d just, you know, steal one.”

“If you hadn’t noticed, few Leviathans carry weapons, shooting down at us like they do. Easier to make one than to steal one.” Benny focused back on his weaving. How long had he been in Purgatory the first time? “You could help, you realize. Do you know how to make rope?”

“Once upon a time, I did.” Meg scooped up the piece of obsidian Benny had found along the riverbank. “But I was always better at sharpening things.” She picked up another piece of rock and set to chipping away an edge to make a blade. 

Benny scowled at her. “You’ve known how to do that this whole time and instead you’ve been, what, playing Candy Crush?”

Meg was a demon. She was selfish and ruthless. But unlike most demons, she also had a direction for her existence. She picked a cause, and she served it. With everything. And her cause, after Azazel and Lucifer? Was vengeance on Crowley.

“I was doing research,” Meg said. It wasn’t entirely a lie. 

“From those fangirls you mentioned?” Benny snorted. 

“One of those fangirls had access to genuine Winchester Gospel material, and her familiarity with it ended up being integral to the Winchesters’ efforts when they were combating Lucifer. So I was reviewing.”

“Find anything useful?”

“Not as of yet. It’s a lot of material.”

“Got anything else on there?” Benny peered at the dim screen. Meg had changed the background to a piece of work-safe Megstiel fanart. Neither character was particularly accurately portrayed, but Castiel’s outfit was recognizable. Benny smirked at her. 

She smirked back at him. “What, like pictures or videos of your boyfriend?”

“Dean Winchester has this thing about friends. But we weren’t like that.” Benny set aside a finished length of rope and scooped up the bone handle to shape a grip on one end with a piece of rock. 

“I know and you know, but the fangirls won’t care.”

“Dean’s like my brother,” Benny said.

Meg laughed. “Yeah. That won’t stop them at all.”

“Well, they won’t ever find out about me. No more gospels, right?”

“Where there are prophets, there are gospels,” Meg said. She thought of little Kevin Tran, all narrow shoulders and bright eyes and quick hands, hunched over a notebook, grumbling about translating. He hadn’t known he was a prophet when she’d first met him, but if what Sam had told her was accurate, he’d learned a lot in his first year alone. Without the tablet, who knew what he’d done to fill his time?

“Dean will only go so far for a monster like me.” Benny rolled the bone between his palms, testing the grip, his gaze distant.

“I dunno – vampire hunter and vampire’s pretty cliché, too, isn’t it?”

Benny frowned at her, confused.

Ah. So he’d heard of Anne Rice but not Buffy. Meg sensed that half of the pop culture allusions he’d learned he’d picked up from Dean.

“Really. Dean and I weren’t like that,” Benny said, and his tone was suspicious.

Meg offered a bright, insincere smile. “I know. But he cares about you, and I’m banking on that. He’ll be so glad to see you that I can get my head start.” 

“You think he won’t be glad to see you?”

“Dean will be BFFs with any number of monsters, but never a demon. Not after Sam’s fling with Ruby, and not after I took Sam for a ride way back when.”

Benny raised his eyebrows at the mention of Sam, but then he shook his head, pushing his curiosity aside. “Before we got all sidetracked with talk of boyfriends and flings, I was going to ask if there was music on there. I never got me a smartphone when I was topside, but I knew enough about them.”

“I never would have pegged you for a musician. But you are wearing a fiddler’s cap.” Meg fired up her music app. “Any kind in particular? Devil went down to Georgia?”

Benny squinted up at the bill of his cap. “What? No, this is a genuine fisherman’s cap.”

“Pretty sure it’s a fiddler’s cap.” Meg had ridden a fiddler once. Taunted him with the promise of the perfect song in exchange for his soul. Devil’s Trill and all that. 

“It’s a fisherman’s cap. I’m a sailor. See? Pea coat. Like in the navy.” Benny snapped the lapel of his coat pointedly. Beneath it, he wore a brown button-down shirt and dark wool slacks. 

“You were in the navy before you became a vampire?”

“No. But after, I learned to sail. Dean called us vampirates.”

“Right.” Meg turned to the chunk of obsidian and kept chipping. “So you stole booty but let the people go?”

“Drank the people, kept the booty, sank the ship.”

“And Dean remained friends with you once you made it topside?”

“I’d reformed, as it were, before I ended up down here the first time,” Benny said. “Went murder-free.”

“Animal blood?”

“Bought human blood from blood banks. AB negative is the way to go.”

Meg smirked at him. “Did it make you sparkle in the sunlight?”

Again with the pop culture confusion. Benny looked as if he strongly suspected Meg was having him on. “No.”

“Good. I’d have to stab you through the eye on principle if you sparkled.”

“Vampires don’t sparkle.”

“You’re preaching to the choir.” Meg handed over the finished blade, then scooped up her phone. “So, music?”

Benny whistled, a familiar refrain. Grieg. “Hall of the Mountain King.”

“I think I might actually have that.” Meg poked through her music collection until she found it. She kept it low, but set her phone between them so they could both hear. Benny bobbed his head idly while he worked, affixing the blade to the bone.

Meg hummed along, gazing the length of the river to where it snaked into the undergrowth that crowded the horizon, jagged tree tops stabbing slate-grey nothing. There was no sun, moon, or stars in Purgatory, just a lightening and darkening of the sky to delineate days and nights. Day, night, death. Those were constants in Purgatory.

“If a monster dies in Purgatory,” she said, “where does it go?”

“Castiel asked the same thing.” Benny shrugged. “I have no clue.”

“I always assumed when a demon died, it was gone for good. Poof. Vanished from existence.”

“I thought so, too.” Benny hummed along to a Tchaikovsky refrain. When had Meg accumulated so much classical music? “You’re the first demon I’ve ever seen here, and I’ve spent a long time down here.”

“You know what they tell humans about Purgatory,” Meg said.

Benny bobbed his head. “Yeah. It’s prison. You do your time, you go free. To Heaven.”

“Think it’s true?”

“Nope. And I’m not gonna let some Leviathan eat me to find out.” Benny handed Meg her new weapon. “Give it a whirl.”

A black comet landed close by, coalesced into a grinning Leviathan.

“Perfect timing.” Meg scooped up her phone, launched herself onto her feet, and took a swing.

More black comets. More toothy monsters. Benny in the mix. The weapon was solid, handled smoothly. Meg let the weight settle into her fingers, let the heaviness of the blade build momentum for a swing and a slash. Black ooze sprayed. Heads rolled. Benny kept close to her, fended off Leviathans who tried to crowd in through her blind spots. He was competent - vicious, efficient, deadly. No fancy footwork, no complicated stances. Just clean lines and fatal strikes. Meg could get used to having a wingman like Benny.

As soon as the last head hit the ground, they took off running. Prokofiev, tinny and uneven from bouncing in Meg’s jacket pocket, echoed after them.

“When we find a proper place to rest,” Benny said, “you should show me some Metallica. Dean talked about how much he missed it, and I never really got a chance to try it when I was topside. Louisiana and all.”

Meg nodded. “Will do.”

Benny grinned, toothy and deadly.

Meg grinned back. Her meatsuit had wanted to be an actress. She had a great smile.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Empty Vessel  
**Author:** Clairestiel  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Pairings/Warnings:** None/None  
**Summary:** Claire Novak is still out there. This is her story. Coda to _Abandon All Hope._

“What are you doing?”

Claire yelped and almost toppled off of her bed. (New city, new house, new room. The bed was always a little taller than she expected.) She caught herself against the nightstand and righted herself amidst her collection of pillows. Mom had taken up crocheting as a nervous habit. Right now all she could crochet was granny squares, and she sewed them together to make lots of pillow covers; Claire had a collection of mismatched pillows on her bed. They made her mother feel better.

They made a comfy nest for when Claire was huddled on her bed, hiding from the world. Behind the privacy of her gauzy curtains (granny squares, finer crochet cotton, made in response to an insensitive comment at Mom’s work about how single moms were a blight on society), Claire was comfortable in her solitude. No one looked for her, and if anyone did, no one found her.

Except Castiel, who was looking a little singed around the edges. Tired. Was that blood on the cuff of one sleeve?

Claire stared at him, chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. “Castiel! What are you doing here?”

“The battle against my brother – we took heavy losses today.” Castiel didn’t move, remained standing in front of the window, broad shoulders blocking out the sunlight.

He looked just like Dad, blue eyes, dark hair. But Dad had never worn such a sombre expression, never been so disheveled. Dad never loomed like that.

Dad wasn’t an angel.

Claire bit her lip. If she focused hard enough, she could summon echoes of Castiel, of his glowing blue grace. He was a soldier, had been from the first pairing of his molecules to his first breath of life. Losing a battle was like losing part of himself. He was supposed to fight in a battle that would always be won, the protection of humanity, the triumph of good over evil.

“Sam and Dean?” she asked.

“Are fine,” Castiel said. “But Ellen and Jo –”

Ellen Harvelle. Joanna Beth Harvelle. A woman who was the closest thing the Winchesters had ever had to a mother. A girl who was the closest thing the Winchesters had ever had to a sister. Claire cleared her throat. “Are they –?”

“They sacrificed themselves. They died nobly.”

“And losing them was –”

“In addition to the battle we lost.” Castiel’s shoulders slumped.

Claire knew that gesture, had seen her father wear the same exhausted posture after a rough day at the office. “I’m sorry.”

“I escaped, but only because Meg was prideful, foolish, distracted.”

Claire frowned. “Meg?” She wracked her brains, scanned through her memories of the _Supernatural_ series. Meg. Demon. Daughter of Azazel. Possessed Sam one time before he died in Cold Oak. Sent back to Hell. “As in, Meg Masters?”

“That was the name of her host when Dean and Sam first met her, but she has had many hosts and many names. I have never learned her true name.” Castiel stared at her for a moment, then stepped forward so he was standing right over her. 

She scooted back into the comfort of her pillow nest instinctually. 

“Apologies.” Castiel took a giant step back. “Personal space.”

Claire bit her lip. Then she patted the comforter next to her. “You can sit if you like.”

“Thank you.” Castiel sat down on the floor. In the tiny room, the bed was hiked up on cinderblocks – college dorm style, Mom said – so all Claire could see of Castiel was his dark, spiky hair. Dad had always worn his hair neat. Clothing and appearance seemed a secondary concern to Castiel in general. Claire wondered if she ought to tell Castiel that he’d fit in a little better if he didn’t wander around looking like his body was an afterthought. Humans basically were their bodies; any attempts to be otherwise were difficult.

“I meant sit on the bed,” Claire said. “Kinda near me. You know. Like a normal person.”

Castiel craned his neck to peer up at her. She could see his eyes too, now, uncertain, just like the first time Dad tried to talk to her about a boy she thought was cute. “But your personal space...”

“You were looming. That’s bad. But you can sit on the bed if you want. So we can make eye contact when we talk.” 

Castiel rose up in one smooth motion. He was stronger, more fluid than Dad.

Claire had to stop comparing him to Dad. “So, uh, what brings you round these parts? You on your way to get more supplies from Jerusalem?” He was always on his way to somewhere or needed help when he came by. She couldn’t decide if that was a good or bad thing.

“I had to leave. After the battle.” Castiel perched tentatively on the corner of the bed, and Claire had to look away, because he looked just like Dad, and he wasn’t even trying to.

“The battle where you ran into Meg?”

Castiel nodded. “She climbed out of Hell again. She is very strong. Persistent.”

When a person couldn’t identify his own emotions, it was difficult for others to read them. Claire couldn’t tell if he was frustrated with Meg or admired her.

“What was she doing there?”

“Now that the Winchesters have vanquished Azazel, she has turned her allegiance to my brother.”

Castiel’s brother had to be another angel. He’d only fist against a fallen angel. The Fallen Angel. Lucifer.

Claire swallowed hard. “And did she fight?”

“She loosed hellhounds on two of our company,” Castiel said. “And she left them to die. Lucifer left her to keep me guarded, and she trapped me in a ring of holy fire.”

“But you escaped, obviously.” Claire relaxed back into her nest of pillows, scooped up her mess of string.

“I pushed Meg down onto the fire and used her as a bridge. And...here I am.”

“The Winchesters didn’t take you with them?”

Castiel closed his eyes, shook his head.

“Um. Well, thanks for coming to see me.” Claire smiled hesitantly. The _Supernatural_ books were devoid of mentions of angels; Sam Winchester had believed in them, Dean had not, and as far as fans were concerned, angels weren’t real. All Claire knew about angels was from what she’d observed in her meetings with Castiel. Did angels randomly drop in on humans to say hello?

Castiel opened his eyes, peered at her. “What are you doing with that string?”

Claire had the strings in a loop around one toe to maintain tension. She fanned out the bundle of pink, yellow, and pastel purple embroidery thread. “I’m making a friendship bracelet.”

Castiel studied the chevron pattern, head cocked like a quizzical bird. “How does a bracelet denote friendship?”

Claire shrugged. “It’s just what they’re called.” She resumed making her knots. It seemed another lifetime ago, that Dad had brought home several skeins of thread and sat down on the edge of her bed, offered them to her. 

“Perhaps,” Castiel said, “it is the effort of making the bracelet that is the symbol of friendship. Aren’t friendships supposed to be built upon sacrifice and kindness?”

Claire considered. “Yeah. Maybe.” She didn’t tell him that her Dad had bought her the thread originally because all the other girls at school were going to Justin Bieber concerts and he wanted her to have a clean, safe hobby.

Castiel scooted a little closer, leaned in to inspect her work. “Is there some significance to the pattern?” He traced a hesitant fingertip over the knots. “I know this is a military rank.”

Claire shrugged. “It’s just a pattern I like to make. There are other possible patterns.”

“I have never seen anyone wear these bracelets before.”

“I’m guessing you don’t hang around teenage girls very often.”

Castiel blinked at her. “I’m here with you.”

Maybe living forever as an angel made his sense of time warped. Dropping in on Claire randomly a few times after possessing and possibly killing her father did not constitute hanging around often. “Well –”

“I do not understand why one of these bracelets could not be worn by a male. I know in the most recent incarnation of western culture the colors you are using are typically associated with females, but if you used different colors, could you not make one for a boy?” Castiel scanned her room; he spotted the little basket of thread on the nightstand. Several skeins of blue and green were on the top.

“I guess they could be,” Claire said. “But I don’t think I’d give one to a boy unless I wanted him to be my boyfriend or something.”

“Do you want a boy to be your boyfriend?” Castiel reached out, fingered one of the blue skeins, expression wistful.

“No boy in particular.” Claire did think a boy at school was cute, but she wasn’t brave enough to talk to him. She wasn’t really brave enough to talk to anyone yet. She thought maybe if she made a friendship bracelet, wore it, showed them she wasn’t alone, they wouldn’t think she was so weird.

Castiel said, “Could I make a bracelet in boy-acceptable colors and wear it?”

“The whole point of a friendship bracelet is that someone else makes one for you,” Claire said.

“Sam and Dean don’t know how to make bracelets. They can make bombs and bullets and traps, but not bracelets.”

Claire took a deep breath. “How about...how about you finish the one I’m making, and I’ll make you a blue and green one?”

Castiel studied her working mien, with the loop of string around one toe, one knee bent so she could rest her chin on it while she worked. “Do I also need to remove my shoe?”

Claire laughed. “No. Here, I have a tool.” She and Dad had made it together. It was simple, a block of wood with a nail in one end on which to secure the loop of yarn. Dad had taken her to the hardware store for supplies – a block of wood, a box of nails, a hammer, and a clamp so she could fix the finished product to the edge of her desk.

She unhooked the string from her toe and showed Castiel how to set up the rig. He hunched awkwardly at her desk, and she stood behind him, guiding his hands on the strings.

“It is quite simple and repetitive once you understand the pattern,” Castiel said. He tied each knot neatly, precisely. His hands were far less clumsy than Dad’s had been, but then Castiel was a soldier. Claire could still remember stifling giggles as Dad cursed, struggling with the hammer and nail.

“I understand that humans find simple, repetitive patterns soothing.” Castiel worked quickly and efficiently, as fast as Claire did when she was in the groove of bracelet-making.

“Indeed we do.” Claire settled back into her nest of pillows and began sorting through the blue and green skeins. Castiel deserved bright colors, not pastels.

“Maybe if someone had made Meg a friendship bracelet when she was human, she would not have become a demon,” Castiel said.

“Do you know who Meg was before she became a demon?” Claire asked. “Would that help you fight her?”

“No,” Castiel said. “Whoever she was when she was a human, decades or centuries or millennia of torture in Hell erased it all.”

“How powerful is Meg? Like, are you at a serious disadvantage because she sided with Lucifer?” Claire had never had a conversation like this before. Mom and Dad always made sure to have serious conversations without her. She shouldn’t have to worry about grown-up stuff, Dad said. She deserved to have fun as a kid.

If Dad wanted her to have fun as a kid, maybe he shouldn’t have prayed for an angel.

“Lucifer is an archangel. With or without Meg, that fact would stay the same.” Castiel glanced at her. “Those colors you’ve chosen are pleasing, and gender-appropriate.”

“Thanks.” Claire smiled. “So, what’s the difference between an angel and an archangel?”

“All angels are...angels. I am a seraph. An archangel is...a bus. And I am an ant.”

Claire’s smile dimmed. “What?”

“It’s a poor comparison, but your human senses are limited, and I cannot describe something which you cannot sense and for which you have no words.”

“So...fighting an archangel is hopeless?”

“No,” Castiel said. “I am fighting alongside the Winchesters.”

Claire studied him, the furrow of his brow, the flick of his wrists as he knotted the bracelet. “Castiel?”

“Yes?”

“Can you feel human emotions? At all?”

“No. I am not human.”

“But you’re in a human body.”

“A vessel. I have access to your father’s memories, but they aren’t mine, and I don’t experience them as he did. A vessel is different from other humans, more compatible with a certain angelic grace, and it allows me to manifest myself without...disruption.”

“So...you don’t know how Dad felt about me and Mom?”

“I know he loved you.”

“But do you know how that feels?”

“No.”

That single syllable hit Claire right in the chest, drove the breath out of her lungs. She blinked back the tears that welled up with a rapidness that would have impressed her mother. These days, Amelia Novak was a champion at stealth crying. Claire was gunning for a silver medal in the same event.

“Sometimes I wonder if demons cannot feel human emotions,” Castiel said. “After all, their souls were once human.”

“I thought you said –”

“They are not their former human selves. But something about their viciousness, their caprice, it reeks of the worst of humanity, with all the best of humanity stripped away.” Castiel looked at her sidelong. “That’s what demons are. The worst of humanity, amplified.”

“Can a demon ever, you know, repent?”

“No. Damnation is eternal.”

“Not even with help?”

Castiel said, “I have finished this bracelet.” He held it up. The knots were tight, even, and neat. It was a beautiful specimen.

Claire looked down at her work. “I still have a ways to go.”

Castiel rose, held out the bracelet. “Here, Claire.”

“I haven’t finished yours.”

Castiel reached out and fastened the bracelet around her left wrist without disturbing the rhythm of her work. “I will be back for mine when it is done.”

“How will you know it’s done?”

But he was gone. Claire stared at the empty space where he’d stood, then down at her bracelet. The next day at school, a girl in her math class asked about it, and Claire could honestly say it was made by a friend.

Three days later, he returned briefly, and when he left, it was with a friendship bracelet of his own.

Days passed. Maybe months. Perhaps years. Meg and Benny fought and ran, rested, fought and ran. Benny hated Metallica. He warmed up to Norah Jones (Meg had no clue how that ended up on her phone). Meg played random pieces to let him experience all genres, and somehow her phone never died. Most times, for music, he’d whistle. When he felt spiteful, he would sing southern spirituals. Somehow, the Leviathans had not caught on to music as a method of detecting the pair. 

They didn’t talk about who they had been before. They didn’t talk about Dean, Sam, or Castiel. They didn’t talk about the sea, or sailing, or Andrea. They didn’t talk about Azazel, Lucifer, or Crowley. They didn’t talk about how Benny felt like he didn’t fit in anywhere topside, not with vampires or humans. They didn’t talk about how Meg had nothing to fight for now except killing Crowley. 

They talked about finding more creative ways to end Leviathans – filleting, boiling, eviscerating. Meg recounted some of her finer works of entrail art. Benny recounted some of his more spectacular kills. They talked about the door. 

It was a glowing blue fissure up a slope, flickering faintly. 

“Last time it reacted to Dean, opened wider,” Benny said, pointing with his weapon. “Castiel said it was because he was human.”

“Well, my meatsuit is human, and you used to be human, too. Let’s give it a shot.” Meg had taken some ropes Benny had made and woven weapon belts for them both. She holstered her blade and started the climb. 

“Pretty sure it ain’t gonna work,” Benny said. “I had to ride out in Dean’s body.”

“My host was completely human,” Meg said, but she wasn’t sure. After all, the blood of a human possessed by a demon had different properties than blood from a regular, passenger-free human. “Think you could ride with me?”

“See if the door opens for you first. Then we’ll do the spell.”

Meg darted a glance over her shoulder to make sure Benny was still waiting for her, then continued her ascent.

The door didn’t open further, just flickered weakly, like a screen on a cell phone that was close to dying. Cruel irony, that Meg’s cell phone never died and this door was never going to open for her.

“Well?” Benny asked.

“Nothing.” Meg turned and climbed down. She landed on her feet, dusted off her palms, and drew her weapon. “So, tell me about this back door to Hell.”

“Back to the stream. Follow it to three trees. Pop open the boulder. Into Hell.”

Meg squared her shoulders. “Let’s do it. So, how do you feel about some trip-hop?” She fired up her phone. 

“Sounds like some kind of drug, not music.”

Meg grinned. “You don’t know how right you are. Ever drink someone who was on ecstasy? I rode an E addict one time. Fascinating experience.”

“You have an interesting definition of fascinating.”

“Hi, I’m Meg. I’m a demon. So...doorway to Hell?”

“This way.” Benny turned and headed toward some trees. 

Meg had yet to figure out how he maintained a sense of direction down here. The landscape was flat enough that there were no outstanding features she could use to orient herself, and there was no sun. The horizon was one endless gray circle.

“Now that I think about it, this might be more appropriate for our journey.” Meg fired up some “Highway to Hell.”

Benny bobbed his head to the beat. Meg resisted the urge to comment that once upon a time this was the kind of song Dean Winchester would have liked, but then he actually ended up in Hell.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title:** Empty Vessel  
  
**Author:** Clairestiel  
  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
  
**Pairings/Warnings:** None/None  
  
**Summary:** Claire Novak is still out there. This is her story. ~~AU after _Swan Song_~~ Coda to KTAP’s _The Man Who Would Be King_

Claire was dreaming. She was in a lush green garden. A large rock was surrounded by lovely flowers, trees, and trimmed hedges. A man in a red sweater was flying a kite. Dad was there, too. He was wearing the clothes Claire had seen him wear last. He, also, was flying a kite.

That was how Claire knew he was her dad. He was flying a kite made out of take-out chopsticks and a piece of a plastic shopping bag, both carefully trimmed to size and shape using Mom’s best orange-handled fabric scissors. The string was regular package twine, hoarded from multiple care packages from Grandma and Grandpa in Wisconsin.

Claire ran toward him. “Dad!”

He turned to her, grinned, but something about it wasn’t quite right. The quirk of the lips, the crinkling around his eyes - that was Dad’s smile. But something behind his eyes was...missing. Claire pulled up short. “Dad? Where are we?”

“The eternal Tuesday afternoon of an autistic man who drowned in a bathtub in 1953.”

Horror curled in Claire’s insides. No. Not Dad. Castiel. Dad’s voice wasn’t that deep. Why was she dreaming about Castiel?

No. She wasn’t dreaming about him. He was dreamwalking her at will. Unlike mortals, who needed African dream root, he could walk in her dreams. After all the apocalyptic weather events ended last year, more books came out online. The unofficial continuation of the _Supernatural_ series. In them, Castiel had dreamwalked Dean at will.

Claire knew the continuation was real, and not just from the writing style (she was learning all about style in English class). The books talked about Castiel, about Mom, and her, and her Dad. Fans couldn’t have made all of them up. 

“What’s going on? Why couldn’t you just visit me like normal?”

The imitation of Dad’s smile faded. Castiel continued flying the kite. The man in the red sweater didn’t even seem to realize Claire and Castiel were in the garden with him.

“I have enemies,” Castiel said. “I couldn’t come to you directly. I had to keep you safe.”

“I remember some things,” Claire said. “From when you were inside me. I know how to demon-proof and angel-proof a house.” It was the first thing she and Mom did every time they moved somewhere new. After reading the _Supernatural_ books, Claire also knew how to ghost-proof a house.

“Heaven is embroiled in civil war,” Castiel said. “Raphael –”

“The archangel Raphael? The one you tried to trap in a circle of holy oil?” Claire remembered both her personal encounter with Castiel when he was fetching the holy oil for the task and the events as described in “Free to be You and Me”.

“He’s after me. He would hurt you if he thought it would hurt me,” Castiel said. “But I wanted to speak to you.”

A kite appeared in Claire’s hands, another chopstick-and-plastic-bag affair. She unspooled some of the string and prepared to take off running, but a breeze picked up the kite before she took the first step, and it surged skyward. “Why me? I don’t know anything about war, let alone civil war. I can barely even drive.” They’d moved before she finished driver’s ed, so now she had to wait all summer to get her license. Mom had let her drive on the way to their new home, so she had all the practice hours she needed.

“I am a soldier,” Castiel said. “I know more about war than a thousand humans can learn in a thousand lifetimes.”

Claire tipped her head back. The kite bobbed and weaved dangerously close to Castiel’s. She stepped away instinctively to avoid a tangle of strings. “Okay. Then...why are we in this man’s Tuesday afternoon?” Claire squinted at him. He didn’t look familiar. If he’d died in 1953, she must not have ever met him.

“This is my favorite heaven.”

Claire almost dropped her kite string. “Heaven? Am I dead?”

“No,” Castiel said. “You are dreaming. I created this space within your dream for us to converse. I thought it would be pleasant.” He was holding the string without tugging against the air currents, but his kite remained aloft.

“Um. It is pleasant. Thanks. Dad and I used to fly kites together.”

“I know.” Castiel nodded gravely. “He thought flying with me would be like being a kite. I was sad to disappoint him.”

Claire bit her lip. She didn’t want to talk about Dad. Mom never talked about him anymore. Mom rarely talked about anything except what she’d done at work that day and what she had to do the next day. Occasionally she talked about what Claire might like to eat for dinner. “What did you want to talk to me about?” Claire didn’t know how to tell Mom that Dad was dead and gone for good. No longer was he riding sidecar with Castiel. He’d been killed during Lucifer’s stand-off with Michael, and unlike Castiel, he had not been resurrected.

Castiel fixed her with his laser-intense gaze. All that grace crammed into a such a tiny body meant the windows into his grace-soul were less like panes of glass and more like a dam barely containing a flood of celestial energy. “Would you do something dangerous to save your friends?”

“Depends on how dangerous, how much I liked my friends, and whether people might be hurt.”

“Your best friends. Your only friends.”

Sam and Dean, he meant. “How dangerous?”

“Opening a door between dimensions.”

Claire stared at him. “Like opening a gate to Hell?”

“No. Not Hell.”

“Somewhere like Hell?”

Castiel bit his lip. “Not quite.”

“Somewhere like Heaven?”

“Not quite.”

“Somewhere...in between? Isn’t that just Earth?” Claire’s eyes went wide. “Are you going to open a door to a parallel universe?”

“That’s already been done this year,” Castiel said. “The effects were minimal. No one even noticed.”

Claire blinked. “What?” Had she heard that right?

“I am relatively sure I can contain what will happen when I open this door,” Castiel said.

Claire’s mind spun. “How sure is relatively sure? Give me a percentage.”

“Eighty-five.”

Castiel’s verbal precision was always surprising, especially since he tended to dance around concepts on the grounds that humans could not perceive or understand what he really meant.

“Oh. Well. That’s pretty sure.” Claire felt the kite string go slack in her fingers. She glanced up. The kite was dipping. She tugged, caught an air current, watched the kite ride it up higher. “How many people could get hurt if you’re wrong about the percentage?”

“ _If_ I’m wrong – everybody.”

“Then don’t do it,” Claire said.

Castiel blinked at her. “They’re my best friends.”

“They’re two people. Two people versus seven billion. The math is pretty simple.” At least, it was simple because Claire was one of the seven billion. She’d have a different opinion if she were one of the two. She was a little hurt that she _wasn’t_ one of the two. After all, she was Castiel’s only other vessel option (as far as she knew).

“Sam and Dean are –”

“I know. The Winchesters. Good enough to have gospels written about them.” Not everyone who had a book in the Bible written about them was good. What’s-his-face raped his own sister. People murdered each other. People lied and cheated and betrayed each other.

But only one person had ever had gospels written about him. Gospel. Good news.

Claire wasn’t so sure the Winchesters were good news. But they had saved her and her mother. It wasn’t their fault Castiel had happened to the Novaks.

Just because they’d saved her didn’t mean they deserved to be the only two left standing after Castiel opened a door to another dimension and obliterated seven billion other humans.

Castiel said, “I’m ninety-five percent sure I can open the door safely.”

“Is it what you want to do?”

“It’s what I have to do.” Castiel’s kite plummeted from the sky.

Claire’s followed moments later. “I guess you didn’t really need to talk to me after all.”

After five days, Meg was starting to think she understood how Benny had a sense of direction around here. The best way to orient herself was by water. Purgatory had four rivers. All she had to do was sniff for them. The rivers branched off into various streams and brooks, and she and Benny were following a stream from what Meg had arbitrarily deemed the East River. The ground was rocky, uneven, and Benny had a bad habit of pushing branches aside and then letting them go just in time to whack Meg in the face. She wasn’t nearly as tall as Dean – in fact, she was tiny compared to even Cas, and unlike Dean, having her hands in guard position at chest height did not enable her to catch the branch before it whacked her in the face.

“Benny! For the thousandth time –”

He glanced over his shoulder, frowned. “Sorry.”

“Why don’t I go in front?”

“You don’t know the way.”

“We’re following the stream. I’m a competent enough demon that I can keep the stream to my left as I walk.”

“Fine.” Benny stepped aside, gestured for her to pass. She stalked past him, blade in hand, used her other hand to shove through the branches.

They continued in silence, the only connection between them the syncopated rhythm of their marching feet and their soft breathing.

Finally, Meg said, “So, where did you learn to weave rope?” It might have been during his sailor days, which were technically verboten, but she was beyond being sensitive. She’d been whacked in the face by foliage too many times to bother being sensitive.

“I was down here for fifty years last time,” Benny said. “Picked up a lot of tricks. My fifty years was kinda worth it for the look on Sorrento’s face when he saw how I could fight.”

Meg didn’t ask who Sorrento was. Probably from his sailor days. An old grudge. That was how monsters operated on: hunger and vengeance. The lesser monsters, the subhumans – they sometimes operated on packs or family. Azazel ever calling Meg family was a joke. A recruited pet torturer was not a daughter.

“Where did you learn how to sharpen a blade?” Benny asked.

Caring and sharing time. Meg could be honest when it served her purposes. Lying all the time was useless. An effective demon knew how best to deploy truth. What Dean Winchester had told Jo Harvelle was true: demons tell the truth when it’s going to hurt.

Sometimes they told the truth because the truth didn’t matter.

“All demons were once human.” Not quite truth, but close enough.

“You learned to sharpen a blade from a stone when you were human?”

“I was a lady. I had cooking and cleaning chores to do, don’t you know.” Some demons were so tortured that they lost all sense of self, that male and female ceased to matter. Somehow, Meg had retained that portion of herself. Maybe because Azazel liked the symmetry of a son and a daughter. “Woman can’t be cooking if she doesn’t have knives.”

“Hunting requires knives.”

“Either way, I believed in knives of the DIY variety.” She’d longed to take the demon-killing knife fangirls called Ruby’s Knife and pick it apart, reverse-engineer it or, better yet, make one that killed angels or reapers or any number of other things that were immune to salt, silver, and holy water.

“Fair enough.” Benny plodded along behind her for a few beats – march, march, branch, branch – and then said, “I like cooking, you know. Always did. I make a mean bowl of gumbo.”

“Gumbo. Louisiana. So cliché.”

“Demon, angel,” Benny shot back.

“Ever tried to make Leviathan gumbo?”

“Pretty sure the black ooze would put people off.”

“You’d be surprised at what humans eat. After all, Dick Roman managed to convince them to eat turducken filled with gray sludge.”

“Turducken?” Benny snorted. “Why would anyone eat anything with ‘turd’ in the title?”

“It’s turkey stuffed inside a duck stuffed inside a chicken. Or maybe it’s the other way around.” Meg didn’t mention that Dean Winchester loved the stuff.

“Why did it have gray sludge?”

Meg glanced over her shoulder and grinned. “Have I got a tale for you.” And she told him about Dick Roman, Sucracorp, and the Leviathans’ plans to turn the world into one giant buffet.

“Huhn,” Benny said. “Dean never mentioned that part.”

There was a slight hitch in his voice at Dean’s name. Meg glanced over her shoulder again. “What did Dean tell you?”

“Not much. Castiel let the Leviathans upstairs for a stretch. Bastards were hard to kill. Castiel turned crazy for Sam, and then they killed the king of the Leviathans and ended up here. I always thought Dean called him Dick as an insult.”

“He insisted on being called that.” Meg summoned her best Smarmy Dick Roman impression, wide, white-toothed politician’s smile and all. “Please. Dick.”

Benny chuckled. “I’d have punched in him the face.”

“He’d have eaten your hand.”

“Very true.”

The silence that fell between them was much more amiable after that. They stopped to rest for the night at the base of a tree. After Meg’s last tree-climbing adventure, they’d agreed that resting up a tree was a poor choice, but if they were near one it could make a last-ditch escape route if needs be.

The rivers were the best way to navigate in Purgatory. Their positions remained fixed. Flora near streams and brooks also mostly remained fixed. Everything else was liable to take a walk if one looked away for too long. Meg had a bad habit of looking away for too long.

“You read whenever we rest,” Benny said. “Have you found anything useful?”

“Purgatory wasn’t on anyone’s radar during the Apocalypse,” Meg said. She locked her cell phone with a flick of her thumb and pocketed it. “It was all Heaven and Hell. Once those were done, I guess they decided to check adjacent spaces.”

Benny nodded. “Is there anything adjacent to Heaven?”

“Sure.” Meg grinned. “Olympus. Valhalla. Elysium. You name it, it’s there.”

“You serious?”

“Why would I lie?”

“You’re a demon.”

“Says the vampire.” 

“You are full of surprises.”

“No one should be surprised,” Meg said. “That’s the biggest trick of it all, you know? Either there is no absolute truth, or there’s only one absolute truth. Either there is God, or no supernatural world, no divinity. But that’s a lie. It’s not either-or. It’s all true. Heaven. Hell. Purgatory. Xibulba. Hades. The wheel of reincarnation. Enlightenment.”

Benny blinked at her. “Enlightenment?”

“Right. When you were mortal, you were still ragingly racist and ethnocentric.” Meg arched an eyebrow at him. “Still racist, it seems. Only against demons, hm? And yet I’m more human than you.” She bared her teeth at him for emphasis.

“You’re pretty squirrely,” Benny said.

Meg arched an eyebrow at him. “Demon, here.”

“You avoided answering me by destroying my worldview.” Benny had laid his club across his knees and was sharpening the tiny obsidian chips studding the business end.

“You became a vampire, and then you came to Purgatory. You got out of Purgatory, and now you’re back again and working with a demon, and trying to think in terms of polycentric cultural norms is destroying your worldview?” Meg snorted. “The only worldview you should have is you surviving.”

“Surviving ain’t living.”

“How much time did you spend around Sam?” Meg squinted at him. That level of sentimentalism was very Sam and not very Dean at all.

“Not long. He’s a hell of a fighter, though.”

Sam wasn’t. He was vulnerable. He’d barely put up a struggle when Meg rode him. But then if Carver Edlund’s books were to be believed, when he was hopped up on demon blood he could buck Lucifer himself.

“Yeah. Hell of a fighter.”

Benny focused on sharpening the spikes on his weapon. “So, tell me about this _Star Wars_. I never did get a chance to catch all the episodes when I was topside.”

“You don’t want to catch all the episodes,” Meg said. “Forget one, two, and three. Four, five, and six are the only ones worth watching. Seriously.”

“What’s wrong with the first three episodes? Won’t I get confused without them?”

“What’s wrong with them? Jar Jar Binks. And no, you won’t get confused. No one else did.”

“What’s the attraction? Stars are inanimate objects. They can’t fight.”

Meg sighed. “Really? Land wars are fought on land. Naval wars are fought at sea. And star wars –”

“Were fought on stars? But people would die. Stars are...fiery.”

“Not on the stars. Among the stars. In space.” Meg peered at him. “Are you messing with me?”

The corners of Benny’s mouth turned up. “I did watch some TV while I was topside.”

“But you didn’t see _Star Wars_?”

“No. I did catch the _Star Trek_ reboot, whatever that means.” Benny glanced at the phone in her hands. “So the stuff you read. Is it any good?”

“ _De gustibus non disputandem est_ ,” Meg said. 

Benny looked genuinely confused. “Was that some kind of spell?”

“Did they not teach Latin when you were in school?” Meg shook her head. “Kids these days.”

“All I has to do was the three R’s and then I set to work at the family business,” Benny said. “So no. No Latin. And I’m not a kid.”

Meg bared her teeth in something that wasn’t a grin. “Dollface, I was riding a meatsuit when Latin was still alive.”

“Between the two of us, I have more experience at being a human. So maybe you’re a kid in your own way.” Benny rotated his weapon with an easy flip of his wrist, then resumed sharpening. How many spikes did that thing have?

“Who said I wanted to be human?”

“You’re trying to escape Purgatory to find the angel you’re in love with. Sounds pretty human to me.”

“I’m not in love with him. And I want to escape so I can stab Crowley in the brain.” Meg looked at him from beneath lowered lashes. “You didn’t do so hot as a human, though, did you?”

Benny pressed his lips into a thin line. Wheels turned behind his eyes – angry expletives, cutting observations, rejection. He swallowed those words down. “So, you lawyer. You never did answer my question. Are the books on that thing any good?”

“And my answer was ‘there’s no accounting for taste’. I think they’re good. I don’t know if you’ll think the same.”

“Read to me and let’s find out.”

Meg searched his expression, but she detected no hint of insincerity. He met her gaze evenly. Amusement glinted in his blue eyes. Meg fired up her book app. “Okay. This is called _Supernatural_ , by Carver Edlund. ‘November second, 1983; Lawrence, Kansas. Mary laid her baby in his crib. His older brother, Dean, heaved himself up over the edge of the railing to press a kiss to the baby’s forehead. The baby was precisely six months old.’”

Benny’s eyebrows vanished under his cap. “Are you reading what I think you’re reading?”

“Carver Edlund is a pretty terrible writer, but the story is compelling. Like I said, there are fans.”

“You mentioned fangirls. Are there no fanboys?”

“There are fanboys,” Meg said. “But they’re not nearly as entertaining as the fangirls.”

“You can’t read me Dean’s life story. That would be like –”

“Reading his diary? Yeah, no. Pretty sure some of the details Chuck included wouldn’t even make it into a diary.” Meg smirked. “This is important information. You need to know it.”

“If Dean wants me to know about him, he’ll tell me.”

Meg waggled her phone at him. “You can’t enjoy the fanfiction if you don’t know the canon.”

“Fanfiction?”

“Seriously,” Meg said. “Listen up. You will learn so many ways to annoy Sam. And Dean.”

“Fine,” Benny said. “Read.”

Meg made it to where Sam and Dean were in Jericho, on the bridge, Dean yelling at Sam for mentioning their mother when Benny said, “All done.”

He hefted his club, spun it on his palm with enviable ease. 

Meg clicked her phone into standby. “All right. Onward?”

Benny nodded. “Onward.”

Three trees meeting as one was a vague description. Was it three trunks out of a single root complex? Was it three trees arching toward each other to form a doorway?

Meg and Benny came crashing through the undergrowth, shaking off the dregs of an attack from some piranha-eel hybrids. 

“I thought this was just an afterlife for monsters.” Meg was panting. 

“Those were definitely monsters.” Benny’s club dripped with maroon ichor. He had a crescent gash from teeth marks on his wrist. 

“I meant of the humanoid variety.” Meg picked a piece of purgatory-fish guts off the sleeve of her jacket. 

Benny bared his vampire fangs. “Now who’s being racist?”

Meg ignored the jibe. “In all your years here, you’ve never come across one of those?”

“Never came across a demon or an angel or a human, either.” Benny crouched, tried to clean the spikes of his club on a patch of dry, brittle grass. 

“Touchdown, Cowboys,” Meg said archly. 

“Like I said, you and your boyfriend are trouble-magnets.”

“Not nearly as much as your boyfriend.” Meg was trying for light and knew she’d failed when Benny’s brow furrowed, gaze darkened. 

She was a demon. She really needed to stop trying to do nice things. It was against her nature.

“For the last time –”

“Methinks the vampirate doth protest too much,” Meg said. At Benny’s thunderous expression, she threw her hands up. “Seriously. I get it – it’s weird. But you’ll have to get used to it. It’s part of the jargon. Once the fangirls get wind of you, you can bet there will be dozens, if not scores of stories on the internet about you and Dean doing the horizontal mambo. No need to get offended. It means the girls think you genuinely care about Dean. Which you do.”

Benny looked away, jaw tight.

Meg bit her lip, searched for words to fix this awkwardness. “So...would those fish have made good gumbo?”

Apparently bringing up anything about freedom, their former lives, or the Brothers Winchester was going to push the demon-vampire partnership toward breaking. Benny squared his shoulders and stomped away from her.

At least he was stomping in the direction they were supposed to be going.

Meg cursed choosing such a short meatsuit and scrambled to catch up. Next time? Supermodel. They were always taller than average.

Demons of Meg’s caliber were, by nature, solitary creatures. They didn’t want to share power, control, or glory. They certainly didn’t like to share prey. Lesser demons were pack animals, clamoring to follow whoever had the most power to feed their greed. It had taken Meg a long time to learn how to maintain long periods of contact with another demon. Tom had been easy to please. Any bout of ruffled feathers could be cured by an evisceration or corrupting a particularly righteous soul. Benny, who had gone vegetarian enough to be cared about by the self-righteous Dean Winchester, wouldn’t be cheered up by yet another corpse. 

But Meg didn’t have to think of something to cheer up Benny. Up ahead, the stream vanished underground. Right where it faded into the thick undergrowth and carpet of dead leaves, a thick, colorless tree trunk separated into three smaller trunks, listing heavily to one side. There was no sign of a boulder. Benny stopped, stared. 

“This is it.”

Meg came up short beside him. “Where’s the entrance to Hell?”

Benny’s lips were pressed into a thin line. “Other side.”

Meg circled the triple trunk, wary of the landscape shifting around her now that the stream had gone underground. On the other side of the tree, a massive boulder was wedged between two tall, solid roots. 

Meg stared at the massive thing and wondered how she could possibly move it. 

Whoops. Not a human. And this tiny weak body? Not real. Just a manifestation of her soul. 

All this time, and she could have manifested herself bigger and stronger and more capable than Benny. Purgatory was about souls, right? Her soul wasn’t bound by her meatsuit, not the same way humans and even former humans like Benny were bound to their mortal shapes. 

Benny followed, footsteps slow and measured. He stared at the boulder for a long moment. His hesitation was understandable. People used Hell as a reference to anything beyond imagination, usually something horrible. If Purgatory was bad, how much worse could Hell be?

Not nearly as exhausting or violent as Purgatory, not since that smarmy crossroads demon named himself King of the Down Below. 

Meg holstered her weapon, started toward the rock. “C’mon. Let’s do this. I know the quick way out. I’ve made it topside twice in the span of a single human’s lifetime.”

Benny didn’t move. 

No matter. Meg could move the boulder herself. One, two, heave, and a vortex with all the force of a black hole was tugging at the edges of her soul. 

“C’mon, Benny.” Meg drew her weapon. Who knew what waited on the other side. Surely Crowley’s minions were wise to this door. If they weren’t, Crowley was seriously stupid, and he doubly deserved what he had coming to him. 

Benny remained unmoving. His jaw was tight, his gaze bright with a feverish light. Not excitement. Not anticipation. Sickened fear. 

Meg sighed. “I know, Hell. So much worse than Purgatory. Think of it as a pleasant yacht trip, all right? You and me: vampirates. The wimpy demons on the other side? Lunch. Now come on.”

Benny stared at the rushing vortex and shook his head. “No. I’m not going to Hell. And I’ve already been topside once. What’s on the other side of Hell isn’t worth the fight.”

“Emo-vampire? That’s one vampire cliché too far. And you’re no David Boreanaz. C’mon, sailor. You had my back. Now I got yours.”

“Topside, you have an angel and a mission. All I’ve got is a guy who’ll throw me over for his brother every time.” Benny spun his club absently. “Down here, I know what I am. I know what I have to do. I got this far. You’re on your own from here on out.”

Meg stared at him, mind racing. He was the ultimate trump card with Dean, especially if she wanted Dean to cough up Cas’s location. Not to mention his resurrection would annoy the hell out of Sam. Or maybe annoy more Hell into him. That was an interesting train of thought. She’d buy a ticket later for that train later. 

“Benny,” Meg started, and the magnetic pull from the Hell portal vanished. Meg turned, weapon raised, ready for an influx of demons. 

Benny said, “Too late. Door’s closed.”

Meg’s heart would have crawled into her throat if she had one. No. Trapped here. Forever. Till she died. Again.

Maybe the Buddhists had it right. Souls just bounced from plane to plane forever.

The magnetic pull resumed, doubled, in an entirely different direction. 

Invisible hands tugged at Meg’s jacket, yanked her skyward. She kicked and fought. “What the Hell?”

Benny was rising with her. He swung his club wildly. “I don’t think it’s Hell, sister.”

The world went angel-grace blue. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Title:** Empty Vessel  
**Author:** Clairestiel  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Pairings/Warnings:** None/None  
**Summary:** Claire Novak is still out there. This is her story. ~~AU after _Swan Song_~~ Coda to KTAP’s _Meet the New Boss._

Sixteen was a magical age. Claire could drive a car (a beater that she’d fixed up herself in auto shop). She could get a job, so she no longer had to shop at the Salvation Army or Army Surplus stores. There was some merit to the Winchesters’ shopping habits. All her army surplus gear was sturdy, easily replaced, and practical for if she ever had to run or fight. Mom had stopped wearing high heels years ago. 

Three years. Seven cities. The Novaks were nomads forced into wandering by the supernatural. Meeting the Winchesters was a curse. Sam had never wanted anyone else to live his life. One brush with him and his brother and Claire was contemplating learning how to hustle pool on the weekends instead of hoping that cute guy in her history class asked her to prom.

She was going to use her spare cash from this waitressing gig to pick up a gun. She already had several good knives. 

Mom thought it was awesome, that she was taking classes at the YMCA. Mom thought it was more bracelet-making or embroidery (Claire had learned to embroider anti-possession and other protective charms into all of their clothes). Claire was taking self-defense. The guy who taught it, Herbie, was an ex-marine, and he called it Marine Fu. Like auto shop, Claire was one of very few girls in the class. Like auto shop, she was awesome at it. 

Next year she was signing up for Latin. If they were here next year. 

The late shift at Denny’s made for little sleep, but Claire was young. She could survive on much less than Mom. Someone had to stay awake, stay on guard. Yes, Claire technically had a direct line to a soldier seraph, but she couldn’t call on him very often. Rebecca had made it clear he was busy. Angels could die. Claire had to rely on herself.

She was Jimmy Novak’s daughter. Jimmy was smart, determined, practical. Gentle. Mom liked to remind Claire that Jimmy had come from a poor, broken (Godless – Mom skipped that detail now) home, had worked his way through school, and had started a good, safe, stable family. Claire could do the same. She could keep her family safe. Her family had been broken and made godless. She would make sure they were safe and stable again. If it took waiting tables at Denny’s on the weekends, pulling double shifts and dodging grabby hands, she would do it. 

It was almost three a.m. when she headed for home. She never let the tank get below half, and there was a Texaco a couple of blocks from the house where one of the boys from her auto shop class worked. 

Whenever Claire glimpsed men in army surplus jackets and flannel shirts, she didn’t avert her gaze like she used to. She didn’t smile and be too friendly either – she’d had enough of suffering leers at the restaurant for six hours. She kept her chin up and kept about her business. 

She also checked out their car. At the time, she hadn’t cared much about Sam and Dean’s car. Now she knew more about it than she’d ever wanted to, and every time she saw a sleek black muscle car, she hoped and dreaded that it meant the Brothers Winchester were rolling into town. The two possible hunters filling up one pump over drove a beat-up tan truck. The bearded one was filling the truck, the other smooth-faced one studying a worn map spread out on the hood.

“Hey, check this out.” The one filling the truck had been biding his time by poking on his smartphone. He held it out for his companion to see.

“What is it? An angel?”

“Damn those Winchesters. It was bad enough when demons were real. Now angels are a thing, too.” The bearded man shook his head. “No. This guy is saying he’s God.”

“Of course God’s a thing. Demons are thing. Lucifer was a thing. Was, thanks to Sam Winchester.”

“And _no_ thanks to that moose bastard, too. If angels are a thing, it’s no surprise God is a thing.” Beardy huffed. “Although just because he _says_ he’s God doesn’t mean he _is_ God.”

Baby Face wrinkled his nose. “Yeah. Shouldn’t God, I don’t know, look more respectable than some skinny white dude in a trench coat and a crooked tie?”

Both men laughed.

Trench coat. Crooked tie. Castiel. Claire turned to the pump and watched the numbers slowly tick upward. Why couldn’t pumps go any faster?

“Of course God shows up _waaaaay_ after Lucifer was a problem,” Baby Face said.

“You think we should chase this guy down?”

Baby Face raised his eyebrows. “For real? You want to take on God?”

“I’ve heard the Winchesters have taken down pagan gods before.” Beardy waggled his phone enticingly.

“Yeah, well, we’re not the Winchesters, and we don’t have to be. Those stuck-up pretty boys with all their white man pain, all the time, screwing the rest of the world over so they can practically screw each other? Who wants that?” Baby Face shook his head. “We have work to do, and it ain’t breaking the universe. Anyway, I found the route. We should be in Buffalo by sun-up.”

“Nice. Now go inside and get some snacks.”

“You got it, Uncle.”

“Hop to it, child.”

Baby Face flipped Beardy the bird. “Not a child.”

“You’re a child till you –”

“Take on a rouxgarou myself, I know, I know.” Baby Face folded the map and slipped it into his pocket, then turned and headed for the convenience store. 

The pump stopped. Claire’s car was full. She didn’t bother with a receipt. She hopped into her car and made a beeline for home. 

She barely remembered to be quiet as she tip-toed past Mom asleep on the couch. She closed her bedroom door, shoved a pillow down to cover the crack at the bottom and stop light from leaking out and waking Mom up, and sank down on the bed, firing up her phone. She opened the YouTube app and typed in “God” with shaking hands.

The first hit was a news report. Two hundred religious leaders dead nationwide. A blonde woman saying, earnestly, that God had no beard, no robe. That he was “young” and “sexy” and wearing a “raincoat”. Castiel. “God” was targeting the KKK and motivational speakers. Claire was sure it was him, but seeing the images of the stained glass windows around the country where Christ had been replaced by Jimmy Novak was starkly bizarre.

Claire had always been embarrassed when her friends said her dad was cute. _This_ was horrifying. She abandoned YouTube and headed for Google. Cured leper colony. Food for a small third world country for a year. Miracles amidst the slaughter. 

What was going on?

Claire stared down at her cell phone screen, then clicked it off and set it aside. There was only one thing to do. Something she hadn’t done since the day her father first walked out of her life – and Castiel walked in. 

She prayed to God. 

Castiel looked terrible. He had red rashes around his eyes and down his face, like he’d been sprayed by acid. 

Claire’s clasped hands sank to her lap. “Cas?”

“Claire. You prayed.”

“Yes. I heard on the news – I saw –”

“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m better than fine. I am –”

“Cas, did you really kill all those people?” She hated the tremble in her own voice. 

“And I healed, and I saved.” He reached out, placed a hand on her head. 

Somehow she resisted the urge to flinch back. His hand radiated warmth, unnaturally. 

“Cas?”

“I bless you with long life,” he said, and warmth spilled over her. It hit the top of her skull and shot down her spine, flooded her limbs. 

“Cas?”

He said, “I am not Castiel.”

And he was gone. 

The next day, Claire checked the news. The acts of God had ended; in their place was the slaughter of everyone at the campaign headquarters of a woman senator. Mom was pale-faced and close-lipped, shoulders hunched, refusing to talk to anyone. 

For the next week, Claire checked the news obsessively for any signs of Castiel, God, or an angel in a tan overcoat. There was nothing. 

Over the next few months, Claire made discreet calls to hospitals, morgues, police stations. No signs of any man who looked like Jimmy Novak. 

Claire had learned her lesson. By the end of a year, she had given up. Castiel, like her father before him, was dead. 

Meg’s soul was pulled apart into numberless tiny pieces. She was shadow. She was air. She was lighter than light itself. She was spinning, whirling, flying. It wasn’t the same sensation as smoking out of a meatsuit or teleporting. It was – wonder. Joy. 

And then terror as her particles and subparticles slammed back together like a thunderclap.

She came to, gasping, weapon at the ready, on solid ground, surrounded by trees. 

Not Purgatory trees. 

It could have been Hell. People thought it was all meat hooks and torture. No. Far worse torture was the damaging of the mind, twisting things loved into things hated, things joyful into things feared. A demon would be more than willing to recreate an earth-like setting to torture a soul. 

“Where are we?” Benny asked quietly. 

Meg could hear him breathing. “Could be Hell. Be ready for demons.”

“But the portal stopped working,” Benny whispered. “We were pulled away from it.” He switched his weapon to his off-hand and spun, scanning their surroundings. He took a deep breath. “Smells like earth. Smells like – food.” His nostrils twitched. He was fixed on some point in the distance between the trees that only he could see.

Meg raised one hand in a universal gesture for _stop_. “It could be a Hell illusion.” That was unlikely, though. Demons were lazy. While one could have created a fairly credible earth illusion with which to torture a soul, the demon wouldn’t have bothered to make the illusion so complete that anyone who happened to stumble in on it would also be fooled.

Unless this was the trap on the other side of the back door into Hell?

Meg’s pocket chirped. 

Impossible. She had new text messages. Meg kept her weapon in her main hand but fished in her jacket pocket.

Her cell phone screen was lit up with a date and time. October 8, 2014. 5 a.m. EDT. She’d missed text messages from a number of people, mostly junk messages. She’d also missed alerts that her favorite Livejournal blog – Claire Novak, Empty Vessel – had had multiple updates, too many to count.

That was a detail no demon could have known. Not even the most complex illusion spell could have manufactured these details.

“I think you’re right,” Meg said. “I think we’re on earth.”

“I’m hungry.” Benny’s words were slurred by his fangs. “There’s food out there.”

“Not humans,” Meg said. “One chomp of _homo sapiens sapiens_ and you’re going right back where we just came from. Unless that’s what you want?”

Benny started to nod, then paused, frowned. “I smell human blood. And – Leviathan.” He twitched his club into guard. 

Meg moved with him. When Leviathans came, they moved together. Always so many of them together. 

“Which way?” Meg scanned the shadows for movement. Unlike Benny, she was not designed for maximum carnivorous hunting efficiency. Her senses, while greater than a normal human’s, were no match for a vampire’s. 

Benny gestured soundlessly, and they moved forward as one. At the edge of the clearing where they’d landed, Benny froze. He stared fixedly at the tree in front of him.

Had he cracked? It was just a tree. 

No, not just a tree. A piece of paper was tacked to the tree. A piece of paper with a sigil painted on it in what looked like blood, but it was too dark to be regular blood. It was mostly dry and tacky but looked fresh enough.

Benny leaned in, sniffed it. 

“Human blood. And Leviathan ooze.”

“I heard there was a spell,” Meg said. “Blood of a virgin and a Purgatory native. Sigil. Latin. Open Sesame.”

Benny reached out, plucked the sigil off the tree. It had been painted onto regular lined notebook paper. A jagged edge showed where it had been torn out. He handed it to her. “You’ve seen this before?”

She shook her head. “I’ve heard rumors, though.” She turned it over. A photograph was stuck to the back. Some nameless diner in a city crowded with cars and people, the glow of headlights muted by falling snow. Beneath the photograph was written _Danvers, MA_ and two other words: _Empty Vessel_. 

Something rustled among the trees. Meg brandished her weapon with one hand, pocketed the paper with the other. 

“What is it?” Was it the person – or monster – who’d summoned them?

“It’s a deer,” Benny said. His expression was dreamy. “It’s perfect.”

Meg eyed his toothy grimace and wondered how vampires ever became romantic objects. Someone had to have made a deal at a crossroads. “Look, the last time someone got pulled out of a prison downstairs, it was because Crowley was working an angle. Who knows who’s out there.”

“Food,” Benny said again. He actually licked his lips. Unlike bad horror movies, it didn’t look lascivious and awkward; he actually looked like a little orphan kid catching a whiff of a home-cooked meal through someone’s kitchen window.

“I’m serious,” Meg said. “That blue light – that looked like Graceland Music. If the angels are out there, they’ll end you and me both. We should get out of here.”

Benny glanced at her. “We?”

“Both of us. We were both pulled up here.”

“Did whoever pulled us up want both of us?” Benny searched her gaze. He must not have found what he was looking for, for he shook his head and turned away. “I’ve never dealt with angels before. This is all you, sister. I was just caught in the crossfire.”

Meg threw her hands up in surrender. “Fine. Welcome back to Earth. Call Dean once you’re done eating, I guess. If he doesn’t work out and you need a hunting partner, well, you can call me.” She rattled off her number, and then Benny was gone in a superhuman burst of speed.

Somewhere in the distance, a deer screamed. Meg winced. “Benny, is that just a quick snack? Are you coming with me when you’re done?”

There was no response. Not even another animal scream.

Meg waited long enough that she had to send a pulse of demonic energy through her body to stave off the cold causing her meatsuit to go numb. “Benny?”

There was another animal scream, more distant than before. That moron was going to stumble on some unfortunate human campers and eat them and then a hunter was going to punch his ticket for the Marie Antoinette Express to Purgatory. Not Meg’s problem.

She squared her shoulders, hefted her axe, and checked her phone. The signal was weak. Apparently the boost of energy from the Purgatory Portal had given her enough signal to get a bunch of useless alerts and texts but not enough to make a phone call. She shrugged, pocketed her phone, and shinned up the nearest tree to get her bearings. Overhead, stars glittered, the Milky Way a mythical road to a long-forgotten noble afterlife. The moon was a faint sliver of red. Lunar eclipse. And there was nothing but trees as far as she could see. Damned cheap human vision.

There was a simple solution. Teleportation. 

She landed in Monson, a hundred miles to the south and the nearest flicker of civilization she’d felt. She batted her eyelashes at a Mexican man driving a pickup truck, knocked him out, stole his wallet, and went to buy more minutes and data for her phone using just his cash. Since Monson had barely seven hundred people, she couldn’t risk using his credit card, just used some more cash to buy a ragged backpack from the Salvation Army so she could stow her weapon. Then she checked a map for coordinates to Bangor, the nearest big city, and teleported again. 

Where there was a city, there was free wifi. She hung around a Starbucks, pilfering a couple of free cups to use as containers for holy water and holy oil once she could stop by a church and bribe a homeless person to get her the stuff. And she checked Amazon for any possible additions to the _Supernatural_ series.

There were more books available, touted as the unofficially officially unofficial continuation, which made no sense, but they might tell her something useful. Meg ducked out of the Starbucks once they were all downloaded and before someone noticed her and got suspicious. Then she redownloaded the entirety of the _Empty Vessel_ series on AO3 while hanging around outside another Starbucks three blocks over.

A little old homeless lady agreed to go top up Meg’s coffee cups at St. John’s in exchange for some cash Meg had pilfered from a few Starbucks patrons. Meg’s final stop before looking for a place to crash was a dollar store where she could buy lots and lots of chalk, lighters, and a couple of canisters of salt to stuff in her backpack.

Her safe place for the night was an abandoned warehouse that was surprisingly clean and warm. It wasn’t abandoned when she found it, but some deep demonic voice rumbles like from _The Exorcist_ and some flashing of the black eyes and the junkies cleared out. Since she hadn’t hurt them, they wouldn’t complain loud enough to alert hunters, but no one who heard them complain would believe them. She dusted off a mattress and found a camp chair that she pulled over to the mattress to use as a table. She set the holy water, holy oil, axe, salt, and lighter on the chair. Then she set about warding her new place against demons and angels and everything in between. While she worked, she deliberately did not think about Benny, roaming the wilderness and on his way to getting killed.

She didn’t think of Benny, letting a hunter take him down. 

Instead, she settled back on her mattress and opened up the first of KTAP’s continuation to the series, “Exile on Main Street”. 

KTAP was a far better writer than Carver Edlund had been. Meg read fast, faster than any human could have, but not fast enough.

This was pointless. This was just fiction. Really good fanfiction, compared to a lot of what Meg had read in her months in the asylum with Castiel, but useless all the same. She was about to give up and close the book when she saw it. 

Samuel Campbell. Gwen Campbell. Mark Campbell. Christian Campbell. Johnny Campbell. 

The hunters from Sam and Dean’s family who had been working with Crowley, bringing him alphas. 

Impossible. A fanfiction author couldn’t have predicted that plot twist, let alone known all the names of the Campbell cousins. Meg remembered that the demon riding Christian had tried to torture her. 

KTAP had to be a prophet. 

Meg had to find KTAP. She needed Internet access and to temporarily possess a hacker. Maybe that girl Charlie? She had to find this new prophet and make him tell her why she and Benny had been brought back. 

And then Meg knew, with stunning clarity, who KTAP was. 

Kevin Tran. Advanced Placement. 

“I don’t know who pulled us up here,” Meg said to herself. “But I know who can tell us.” She sped through the year of soulless!Sam. He was hilarious. What glimpse she’d had of him in going against Crowley hadn’t been nearly as entertaining as him hooking up with a hippie chick while Dean was in Fairy Land. 

She zipped through the Year of the Leviathans and the Year of the Trials. Most of that she knew, either from personal experience or from her chat with Sam. The scene of her own death was artfully written. She’d gone out as a soldier, a faithful Winchester ally, Castiel’s lost love.

She shuddered to think of the romantic drivel other fans might write in response to the scene. She really was regretting never ordering that pizza. Now was her chance to make up for it. 

Except Heaven had been slammed shut, the Angels were fallen, Castiel had lost his grace, and Kevin was dead. 

The kid had written his own death. His words to Dean were doubly prophetic. He always trusted the Winchesters, and he always got screwed over. Why hadn’t he told Dean about Gadreel?

Had the Winchesters been slaves to fate all this time, even after Lucifer?

Meg powered down her phone and set it aside. She scrubbed a hand over her face. 

Metatron. An archangel in name only, given the title and the function but none of the power. Another angel who thought he could play God. Such a one-track mind that species had. No matter how much they complained about their Father, they were always jockeying to take his place. Maybe Meg ought to stab Metatron through the brain first. Crowley was always on her hit list, but if Metatron had screwed up Heaven and Cas, he had to be dealt with first. She never thought she’d see the day when her enemy was the Winchesters’ enemy by choice instead of coincidence. Did she need to have her head checked? She glanced at her phone again, but it was useless. Still no service.

She wanted to sleep right now. That would be nice. Curl up, close her eyes, and let all of the information she’d absorbed percolate in her brain. Even though she was no longer human, her brain functioned essentially the same as a human’s, and she’d see patterns. The Winchesters’ lives were littered with patterns. Chuck had called it literary symmetry. He was too mortal, too young to understand that the universe was one giant set of patterns.

Sam lost his soul, then got it back. Castiel made a deal with Crowley and opened Purgatory. Sam lost his mind, then lost Dean and Castiel in the closing of Purgatory. Sam almost lost his life trying to close Hell. Castiel lost his grace closing Heaven. All that loss. And then Sam got to double up with an angel in his meatsuit. What lovely parallelism, first a demon, then a fallen angel, then a regular angel. Sam’s insides were a hot commodity in the supernatural world. Meg had got there first.

She sat bolt upright. Castiel had opened the gates of Purgatory, but not before debating with himself for a long time. Not before hanging around in his favorite heaven, the eternal Tuesday afternoon of an autistic man who died in 1953.

Meg swiped her phone back into action, and this time she fired up Claire Novak’s _Empty Vessel_ series. She skimmed through the entries, had read them so many times, had assumed it was all fanfiction, because so much of what fictional Claire Novak wrote tracked with what Meg knew had happened up through Carver Edlund’s “Swan Song”.

But some of it tracked with what Meg knew beyond Sam flinging himself into Lucifer’s cage. Fictional Claire knew about Castiel’s stint as God. Fictional Claire knew about Castiel’s favorite heaven.

What if Fictional Claire wasn’t fictional? Or what if she was fictional, as in not really Claire Novak, but was another prophet? After all, between Chuck’s disappearance and Kevin’s summons, there was a significant gap. While no one was sure when Chuck had vanished, he’d stopped writing after Sam jumped into the cage, and Kevin hadn’t known he was a prophet till two, maybe three years later. If Chuck was dead, someone had to have been called in the interim.

Meg flipped through Claire Novak’s blog entries, skipped right to the end. It wasn’t the last entry Meg had on her phone, the entry about running into God!Stiel. This entry was dated October 7, 2014. Meg’s phone said it was October 8, 2014. 

She scanned the entry, pulse pounding.


	7. Chapter 7

**Title:** Empty Vessel  
**Author:** Clairestiel  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Pairings/Warnings:** None/None  
**Summary:** Claire Novak is still out there. This is her story. ~~AU after _Swan Song_~~ Coda to Sidebar’s _Black_

Claire couldn’t leave home for very long. The fact that it was fall break was the only reason she could do what she was doing. She’d hated lying to her mother, telling her she was going over to Ina’s grandmother’s cabin – finally, Claire was making friends – when instead she was driving up to the Hundred Mile Wilderness in Maine. All those weeks, months of research had finally paid off. Claire could rescue Castiel. She knew how to get his grace back. But she couldn’t do it herself. She needed help, better help than Dean and Sam. Dean had tricked Sam into letting himself be possessed by an angel. Claire couldn’t trust him, not with this. Whatever he did, it was to save Sam. He’d even betrayed Sam to save him. Claire couldn’t risk that. She had to save Castiel. Then Castiel could save Mom.

Claire had done the research, had bartered away hours of translating and extra research to hunters to get the final ingredient she needed. The other ingredients she could provide herself. Dean Winchester always made fun of virgins, but virgins made for really powerful spells. Claire liked knowing she didn’t have to hunt for virgins, because usually there was no way to figure out if the condition was present until someone was dead or an important spell had failed.

Ina’s grandmother fed Claire a hearty dinner and packed her a lunch made of leftovers, then sent her on her way. Everyone at school knew Claire was an introverted sort, introspective, and also self-sufficient, so Ina didn’t think it at all strange that Claire was planning on going camping in the dead of winter in the Hundred Mile Wilderness in Maine.

Claire wasn’t going camping. She was setting up a camp, performing a spell, and then booking back into town. She was reasonably certain that the souls she summoned would appear at the site of the summoning, but all her research indicated that people who exited Purgatory in any way other than by opening ritual landed in the Hundred Mile Wilderness.

Life wasn’t fair. If life was fair, her mother, who had already suffered enough, wouldn’t have been struck with cancer. Claire knew the truth. God had flown the coop. There was no use praying to him (Mom pretended she wasn’t sneaking around at the church down the street, lighting candles and praying for a miracle). If Claire wanted something done, she had to organize her allies herself. God would grant her no miracles.

An angel could.

KTAP had thought he was sneaky, stealthy, creating a Livejournal account and posting “fanfiction” in the communities. He’d thought he was clever at fitting in, reading and commenting on other people’s fanfiction, asking for a beta. He’d thought he’d struck gold when Claire (Clairestiel on LJ) offered to be his sole beta, available whenever he had a question or concern (never mind that she’d practically memorized Strunk and White’s _Elements of Style_ to manage the task). Claire knew KTAP hadn’t been smart enough to do more than skim the first few entries of her blog that lined up with Carver Edlund’s work. If he had, he would have realized she was real – just as she’d realized he was real.

He wasn’t very original, either. At least Chuck had thought to use a pseudonym. Anyone with half a brain should have been able to figure out that KTAP stood for Kevin Tran, Advanced Placement. Perhaps some fans had figured it out and assumed he was playing the same game as Carver Edlund and his character Chuck.

Claire wondered why Kevin had never told Sam and Dean about the books. Apart from Becky kidnapping Sam (and whoa, that would have been way creepier with the roles reversed), the Winchesters had taken having fans with some measure of aplomb. Of course, it was one thing to make a living as a writer, transcribing the Winchesters’ adventures from afar. It was another thing to be living among them, writing down everything they were going to do mere hours before they did it.

Although Kevin had, apparently, spent a good chunk of his year on the run catching up on the episodes of the Winchesters’ lives he’d missed.

Claire needed to stop rambling in her own head.

And she needed to get the spell done. Once Meg was back, she’d have some time to get reacquainted with living. If Meg found Claire’s message, they’d see each other soon.

If she didn’t, Claire would send hunters after the demon who loved the angel inside her father.

Castiel hadn’t been a hundred percent sure he could control the results of the spell, but like Castiel before her, Claire was going to do what she had to do to save the people who meant the most to her.

For the first time ever in the history of Claire Novak’s blog, there was a photograph. It was of a chain restaurant on a street corner in a snowy city crowded with cars and people. 

Meg had seen that photo before. She tugged the crumpled paper out of her jacket pocket, unfolded it and smoothed it out. The sigil was smeared but still legible. In brighter light, the handwriting was stereotypically girly. All it was missing was hearts instead of dots over the i’s. 

Meg knew where to go. Danvers, Massachusetts. She’d found Claire’s message. 

Meg could teleport there and then spend hours searching for just the right restaurant. Or she could get on Google maps and dig around until she found a restaurant that matched the location. 

Even though the restaurant in the picture was nameless, Meg had read Claire’s blog. She knew where Claire had worked before. 

Denny’s. 

Meg gathered up her safety supplies, wiped away the protection charms, and vanished in a whiff of sulfur. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Title:** Empty Vessel  
**Author:** Clairestiel  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Pairings/Warnings:** None/None  
**Summary:** Claire Novak is still out there. This is her story. ~~AU after _Swan Song_~~ Coda to KTAP’s _Holy Terror._  
  


Reading _Supernatural_ fanfiction was a poor choice for someone who had lived some of the actual events in Sam and Dean’s lives. SamLicker81, who Claire had noticed was active on fan forums long before Carver Edlund released his continuation, had ceased writing fanfiction around the time the events of The Real Ghostbusters had occurred in real life. (Claire had also stumbled across a fan forum posting by someone claiming to be Barnes of Damian and Barnes, insisting that the events of that episode were probably just a publicity stunt, that Carver Edlund’s publishing house had hired two actual actors to play hunters so as to promote the continuation of the series.)

But seeing how the first continuation had been originally touted as fanfiction until BeckWinchester176 (Becky’s only marginally wisely rethought screen name) released a scan of a statement on official-looking letterhead from the publishing house that “Lazarus Rising” was the first in a posthumous release of books by Carver Edlund as his last gift for his fans, Claire was hoping that some fanfiction out there might be the real deal, more Winchester Gospels. 

There were many explanations for and speculations about how Sam was freed from the cage (and Adam, too). Most fans were enraged by KTAP’s take on events, that Sam had no soul and was acting like an asshole and dragged Dean away from his chance of a normal life with Lisa and Ben. (The Sam Girls fired back with accusations of hypocrisy, that Sam’s behavior while he had no soul was as ruthless and slutty and Dean’s, and anyway, he had no soul, it wasn’t his fault.) KTAP had a better vocabulary than Edlund, had a better sense of pacing and suspense. Fans who were neither Sam nor Dean girls (fully belonging to Camp Castiel) objectively observed that KTAP had done interesting things by drawing on the Campbell past, extending the arc of the archangels, and introducing a credible, oddly likable new villain in Crowley, and he had taken an interesting approach by dedicating an entire story or two to Bobby.

At first Claire hadn’t been able to bring herself to read much of KTAP’s writing, because it was surreal. Her life and her family’s suffering weren’t for other people’s consumption. She couldn’t decide if she was relieved or enraged that the Novaks had essentially been forgotten. She was annoyed that so many people thought she ought to team up with Michael, Asher, and Ben and become a team of junior hunters. Most people seemed to miss the point of the books. Being a hunter was miserable and thankless and often selfish. There was a reason few families managed to stick with it, the Campbells notwithstanding. 

But Claire had checked the comments for each new episode KTAP posted, and then one day she saw it. One fan was arguing that KTAP making Castiel’s favorite heaven one belonging to an autistic man was playing on the mystical disabled person trope. Someone else strongly disagreed. Castiel didn’t imply the autistic man was mystical, simply that his favorite heaven was peaceful. 

Claire knew then that KTAP was a real prophet, because she’d been to Castiel’s favorite heaven. So she sent him a message, offered to be his full-time beta, and it was on. 

She’d pored over the details of his stories, devouring every detail of Castiel’s whereabouts when he wasn’t visiting her. Every time she came across a moment that Castiel had told her about, something akin to hope welled in her. He and the Winchesters had taken the supernatural fight to a global – if not cosmic – level, but he had still cared enough to come see her. 

And Meg. He’d kissed Meg, the demon who’d possessed Sam, who had been the source of the Winchesters’ earliest, fiercest battles. 

Claire learned why he’d been silent for so long after his stint as God, why he’d dropped into her room in the middle of the night naked and covered in bees (and revealing more about her father than any daughter ought to ever know), and why he was silent again. He’d been killed, sent to Purgatory. 

He was probably dead. 

And then KTAP went silent. No stories, no posts, no comments on other blogs. 

Claire panicked. She spent three hours praying in her room. When that didn’t work, she headed down the street to the church to light candles and pray more. Still no response. Not from Castiel or anyone. 

When she came home, Mom was waiting in the living room. “How did you find out?”

Claire paused by the coat rack, about to shrug out of her jacket. “Find out about what?”

Mom was pale and thin, but then she’d been pale and thin and tired since Claire came to herself in a body-strewn warehouse after being host to an angel. “The cancer,” Mom said. “I didn’t want to tell you until the doctors were sure.”

Claire’s world turned sideways. “Cancer? Mom, what?”

“It’s why you were praying, isn’t it?”

Claire felt tears, unbidden, start to slide down her face. “You have cancer?”

Mom frowned. “I thought you knew.”

Claire shook her head. “No, I–”

“But you went to the church. I’d gone to the church, too. To pray. To _him_. But he didn’t answer. No one answered.”

“Because no one’s there,” Claire choked out. She threw herself into her mother’s arms and cried. 

She abandoned the fanfiction after that. But she researched. Making a demon deal was out of the question. There had been a civil war in heaven. Maybe other angels had fallen like Castiel and become healers like Emmanuel. 

When Claire wasn’t at school or working, she was researching. She barely scraped by in her classes and suddenly understood Dean’s decision to get a GED instead. Mom wouldn’t have let that happen, though. 

She couldn’t try binding a reaper. Or Death. But maybe –

Claire dragged a hand through her hair and stared at her laptop screen. There was no cure for cancer, not even a supernatural one. Unless she was willing to sell her soul. Was she a bad daughter, for refusing to sell her soul to save her mother?

Claire wanted to cry. Mom had run out of tears weeks ago. Claire, unfortunately, still had tears to shed. 

A half-hearted bleat from her laptop let her know she had a new email. Maybe it was a response from one of the few hunters who’d been willing to even respond to her. 

It was a message from KTAP. 

A video message, along with dozens of PDF, Word, and ebook attachments. 

Claire had always, foolishly, assumed Kevin looked like one of those pretty, glossy boys from K-pop videos on YouTube that her English teacher adored. In the video message he was unshaven, unkempt, and shadow-eyed. 

“Hey, Clairestiel. Sorry I never learned your real name. Not to be a total creeper, but if you’re getting this message, it means I’m dead. I’m betting the angel inside Sam did it. I know, it sounds like I’m talking crazy, but I’m not. My name is Kevin Tran, and I am a prophet. This is everything that’s happened to Sam and Dean since everyone made it out of Purgatory.”

Everyone. Did that include Castiel? Would he come if Claire prayed to him?

“Spread the word. Get Becky Rosen to help you. This is another unofficially official continuation of the series. People should know. Please, please beta these for typos before you post. Or, you know, don’t. Thanks, Clairestiel. Get out there and salt and burn. And never, ever trust Sam and Dean with your life.”

The video ended. Claire stared at her screen for a moment. Then she prayed. No answer. 

Dammit. Time to read. Maybe answers were in here. 

Hours and days later, Claire had no answers. Castiel was mortal, grace torn away, replaced by rapidly fading grace from an angel he murdered. 

Claire had to fix his grace. She stared at the image of Kevin Tran frozen on her screen and knew what she had to do.

Claire Novak hadn’t been lying. People who looked at her immediately saw that she was Jimmy Novak’s offspring. Meg and Tom hadn’t looked like each other and hadn’t really tried to, since they were siblings in name only. Unity between demons was a frail thing; family was nonexistent. Sam and Dean didn’t look related either till one witnessed them moving in combat. Then, like she and Benny, they were clearly broken from the same mold. 

Claire, sitting in a corner booth and tapping away on her smartphone, had Jimmy Novak’s bright blue eyes, neat straight nose, and wide pink mouth. Her brow was furrowed just like Castiel’s when he was deep in thought. She had a half-finished order of fries and a mug of fresh coffee at her left elbow. She set down her phone, reached below the table, and drew up a textbook. Wheelock’s Latin. 

Meg flashed the hostess a brief smile and said she was meeting a friend, nodded in Claire’s direction, and crossed the dining room. She stopped at the booth. 

Claire said, without looking up, “Christo.”

A shudder of unease ricocheted down Meg’s spine. “Test doesn’t do any good if you don’t see the results.” Meg tucked her hands into her jacket pockets and waited for the inevitable scrutiny. None was forthcoming. 

Claire translated a sentence badly. Peace on earth to men of good will, morons. Meg didn’t point it out. 

“You’re Meg.”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

“You care about Castiel.” Claire glanced up briefly. 

“Sure.”

Claire translated another sentence. Better. She was still no Bobby Singer. “I care about Castiel.”

“I hadn’t noticed, the way you pulled me out of Purgatory to save him.”

Claire glanced up again. “You read my Livejournal.” She caught Meg’s gaze and held it. 

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

The corner of Claire’s mouth turned up. That expression was very Castiel. Or Jimmy. “You left a comment once. Polite. Innocuous. Your screen name was DarkThorny. I track the IPs of everyone who visits my LJ.” She gestured at the curved leather bench. “Have a seat.”

Meg slid into the booth cautiously. Claire stowed her Latin text and notebook and drew out a Lisa Frank unicorn notebook. She flipped it open. “Here’s how we save Castiel.”

“Lisa Frank? Seriously?”

“It was on sale.”

“But the neon pink and purple.” Meg gestured vaguely at the notebook. 

“Did you think I’d be rocking old camel-colored leather with my dead grandfather’s initials?”

“You’re a hunter.”

“I’m a teenage girl with a sick mother. Now, are you in?”

“Depends on what I have to do.”

Claire explained, flipping through her notebook to different sections. Her handwriting matched the note Meg had found. 

Halfway through, the waitress stopped by, so Meg ordered an Oreo milkshake and some pancakes. When she’d made a grab for some of Claire’s fries, Claire responded by shaking salt over them. Then Claire asked for a bottle of malt vinegar and proceeded to drown her fries in that as well. And she ordered more coffee.

“Drinking all that coffee will stunt your growth,” Meg said. “Mmmm. This milkshake is delicious. You should get one.”

Claire shook her head and resumed detailing how Castiel’s grace could be restored to him. Once it was all explained, she sat back. “So. Are you in?”

Meg reached out, tapped a diagram. “Where did you find this spell?”

Claire grinned, a brief, gleaming flash of teeth. “Google.”

“And how do I know it won’t hurt me?”

“Best as I understand its effects, it’s a targeted spell,” Claire said.

“Have you ever used this spell before?”

Claire shook her head. “I don’t have magic. Again: are you in?”

Meg sat back. “What makes you think I would be? Sure, you got me out of Purgatory. I could just go back to my old demonic ways.”

Claire closed her notebook, tapped the image on the cover. A unicorn. She raised her eyebrows at Meg, expression knowing.

Meg had seen that expression on Castiel’s face. This was too weird. How much of what charmed her about Castiel was Castiel the angel and not Jimmy Novak, the man? And how pathetic was she, actually considering that she, a ranking demonic general of hell, could be charmed by a mere mortal? A boring, milquetoast AM Radio Ad Salesman of a mortal, no less, one who’d been devoutly Christian and had a wife and a kid?

“Like I said, Lisa Frank? Grow up, kid.” Meg pushed the notebook away and went to stand up.

Claire was unmoved by Meg’s derision. “Demonic ways aren’t a cause, Meg. These days, Crowley rules Hell, so the definition of demonic ways is...Crowley’s ways. You asked Sam to protect your unicorn. As they did for Jo and Ellen Harvelle, Bobby Singer, Sara Blake, and Kevin Tran, the Winchesters failed to protect someone they claimed to care about. You want a cause? I’m offering you one. And when it’s done, you can order a pizza and move some furniture.” She didn’t even blush at that last insinuation.

Meg stared down at her. “You’re, what, nineteen? Shouldn’t you be getting drunk somewhere in a cabin with your sorority sisters?”

“Boston Community College doesn’t have sororities, and I am doing exactly what I should, which is everything I can to help my mother.” Claire polished off the last of her fries. 

“Doing what you’re supposed to is boring,” Meg said. 

Claire met her gaze, unwavering. “At least I know what I’m supposed to be doing.”

Meg stared down at that girl and wondered if, in another life, she and Castiel had had children, they would look anything like Claire Novak. 

Claire reached into her backpack and plunked a box of hair dye on the table. “I’ll throw this in as a gesture of goodwill.”

Meg hesitated for a moment, then snatched up the box. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Claire tossed down a handful of crumpled bills, gathered her school supplies, and headed for the door. 

Meg followed and felt distinctly clean for doing so without at least a little more posturing and threats. 

Claire was driving a beater of a car, but it was more inconspicuous than what the fans were calling Castiel’s pimp-mobile. Meg kept her backpack on her lap as she climbed into the passenger seat. Claire had, interestingly, a CB installed where most kids had an iPod converter, and she drove the exact speed limit all the way home. 

Home was an apartment above a seafood restaurant about a mile from Harvard’s campus but within walking distance of an MBTA station. Claire parked the car in an alley behind the restaurant and led Meg up the fire escape to a door over the kitchen entrance. 

Claire unlocked the door and held up a hand for Meg to wait. Then she knelt and drew a knife from somewhere in her jacket. There was a faint scraping – the breaking of a devil’s trap – and then Claire straightened up, beckoned for Meg to enter. 

“Does your mom know you’re letting demons into the house?”

“She’s either at work or church,” Claire said. “As long as I’m passing my classes and contributing to the household and not getting into trouble, she doesn’t mind what I do. After all, I am nineteen.” Claire led Meg past a small kitchen-den, a half-open bathroom, and a couple of closed doors. Claire’s bedroom was right next to the interior door that led down to the restaurant.

It was sparsely furnished – desk, bookshelf, bed. A basket of embroidery supplies was perched precariously on the corner of the shelf. The bed was hiked up on cinderblocks. Meg bet Claire’s hunting supplies were all beneath the bed.

Claire set her backpack on her chair and her books on her desk, then stepped neatly around Meg and tugged open one of the closed doors in the hall. She retrieved a clean towel and handed it to Meg, pointed her down the hall to the bathroom.

“If you give me your clothes,” Claire said, “I can run them through the machine.”

Meg tossed the towel and box onto the counter, then started shucking her clothes. This time Claire did blush, but she remained straight-faced, collected the clothes, and bustled them away.

Fans were often amused at Dean’s enthusiasm over trivial things like good water pressure, but after having spent a year in Purgatory, Meg understood him. The water was cleansing. Purifying. She would not be redeemed by this slow, thorough scrub, but all of the confusion, the distraction, the detritus of running around in Purgatory for a year straight was being distilled, burned away, leaving pure Meg behind.

Meg, demon without a cause, was no longer.

Claire Novak was taller than Meg, but slender, still angular like a boy, so her clothes fit all wrong. They too long in the legs and arms, too snug around the chest and hips. But they were clean and soft.

“Do you know how to do this?” Claire shook the box of hair dye.

Meg remembered Crowley ordering a couple of his demons to bleach her hair. They’d picked physically strong vessels but clearly hadn’t been the brightest ones in the ranks. They’d probably even been stupid before they died. There had been much fumbling to read the instructions, burns on her scalp, and chemicals in her eyes. “I can read.” She snatched the box and tore it open. 

Claire nodded. “Okay. Your clothes should be ready by the time you’re done. Don’t worry about getting dye on mine. It’s all replaceable.”

Meg tugged on the collar of the shirt. “This isn’t your favorite, most precious flannel shirt ever? Or are you channeling your inner Sam?”

Claire rolled her eyes and departed. 

Meg closed the door loudly and sat down on the closed toilet lid. She appropriated Mama Novak’s phone charger to keep her phone alive. If she glanced at it occasionally, waiting for a call from an unfamiliar number, no one knew but her. 

And possibly a new prophet, hiding somewhere and writing this all down. 

Meg pushed aside thoughts of prophets and phone calls and mulled over Claire’s plan. For a girl who was a former angel vessel, she had a ruthless streak a mile wide. 

Meg was back. She was a demon with a cause. Because everyone else in the world was incompetent, she was going to save her unicorn. And then they would stab Crowley in the brain. 

An hour later, Meg was clean, dry, and a brunette again. Claire had shuffled Meg’s supplies into a sturdier army surplus satchel and was standing by the open door, waiting for Meg to depart. 

“If you care about Castiel so much,” Meg said, “why aren’t you doing this? Shouldn’t you be dropping out of school to hit the road with me?”

Claire shook her head. “That’s not my story. My job is to protect my family.” She held out the unicorn notebook. “This story is yours now.”

Meg stared at the unicorn for a long moment. Then she flipped past the plan to the “leads” section. Australia. “I don’t know why you bothered to show me to the door,” she said. 

Claire said, “I programmed my phone number and email address into your phone. I also wrote them in the notebook.”

Meg nodded. “Right. Don’t call me. I’ll call you.” She waggled the notebook. “Down Under I go.”

And she was gone in a whiff of sulfur. She swore she could hear Claire coughing and spluttering in her wake. 


	9. Chapter 9

Part II

Chapter Nine

The problem with teleporting somewhere one didn’t already know firsthand meant one landed somewhere random in the location. When a demon was heading for Australia, she could land on the roof of the Sydney Opera House – or in the middle of a greyhound racetrack. 

The dogs howled and veered off the track when she appeared. Angry shouts and expletives exploded from the stands. Meg leaped over the one dog who stayed on course and vanished again mid-air. 

She reappeared outside of the racing stadium and took a moment to collect herself. 

She remembered Castiel in scrubs and his tan overcoat, talking about angry dogs chasing a rabbit and thinking only in ovals. That’s why she was here. For Castiel.

She flipped open Claire’s notebook and scanned the details of the first lead. She read the name of her first target and swore. When she fired up her phone and she saw she had no service. Damn. 

Then she turned around and popped right back into Claire’s apartment. 

Claire spun around, handgun at the ready. 

The invisible steel walls of a devil’s trap closed around Meg in an instant. She rolled her eyes. Then she lifted the notebook and jabbed a finger at the first page of leads. 

“Jesse Turner. The Antichrist? Are you insane?”

Claire didn’t answer the question. “Prove you’re really Meg.”

“I agreed to go on a crazy quest for my unicorn, and step one is killing The Antichrist?”

Claire de-cocked the gun and holstered it. Then she knelt and broke the devil’s trap. “I thought you said you understood what we were doing and that you were in.”

“I can’t go after the Antichrist alone,” Meg said. She stepped out of the devil’s trap.

“I can’t be your backup,” Claire replied, gaze steely.

Meg was reminded of standing back-to-back with the best comrade-in-arms she’d ever had, watching Leviathans close in to the whistled strains of “In the Hall of the Mountain King.” She shook the memory aside. “You’re crazy. If an angel can’t take on the Antichrist, do you think a demon could?”

Claire drew herself up to her full height. “You’re not just any demon. You can cause pain for even the King of Hell. You survived Purgatory for a year.”

Meg eyed her shrewdly. “You took a gamble, opening the portal like you did. Why did you even think I survived?”

“You crawled out of Hell three times, each time on your own. You managed to possess Sam Winchester for a whole week when Lucifer couldn’t even do it for twenty-four hours. With a single thought and flick of your wrist you had Crowley cowering like a whipped dog.” Claire knelt and fixed her devil’s trap. A silver clasp on a chain gleamed at the nape of her neck. “If anyone can complete this task, it’s you.” Then she smiled faintly. “With me to guide you, at any rate.”

“Some guide you are,” Meg spat, “sending me after the Antichrist. Remember Christ in the Bible, exorcising demons with a single word, raising the dead, turning water into wine, making entire planets? Think of someone just as powerful, and just as evil as Jesus was perfect.”

“It doesn’t have to be the Antichrist if you can find another similar creature,” Claire said. “He was the only one I could think of, and the only one I had leads on.”

Meg blinked at her. “Seriously? In all the history of all the world, the only cambion you could think of was Jesse Turner, teenaged Antichrist and terrifying even to a demon who crawled out of Hell three times?”

Claire looked taken aback at Meg’s sarcasm. “Hardly anyone else even knows that Jesse Turner could properly be called a cambion.”

Meg pushed past Claire and marched down the hall to Claire’s bedroom. “Aren’t children required to read in school anymore?”

Claire hurried to follow her. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember if I read about a cambion.”

Meg scanned Claire’s bookshelves. Then she grabbed a battered paperback and flung it at Claire. She automatically turtled back to avoid the impact, caught the thing right before it could hit her in the chest and wind her. Then she turned it over and stared at it. “ _The Mammoth Book of Merlin_?”

“Merlin the wizard,” Meg said, “is a cambion.”

Claire blinked at the book’s cover, baffled. “This was Mom’s. She’s always had a thing for Arthurian legends. She used to call Dad Galahad. I never bothered to read it, but I kept it in case she ever wanted to, you know, read it again.”

“Pretty sure Merlin’s who everyone thinks of first when the subject of a cambion comes up,” Meg said. She crossed the room and sat at Claire’s desk, prodded her ancient laptop to life. “What’s your password?”

“I’m not telling you. Also, Merlin isn’t real,” Claire said.

Meg fixed her with a withering glare. “I can see why Castiel stuck with Daddy as a vessel. Wouldn’t want to hamper the holy ministry on Earth with a vessel that’s slow in the head, would he?”

“I figured out how to get you out of Purgatory, didn’t I?”

“Would I be so frustrated that you hadn’t thought of Merlin if (a) he weren’t a real person and (b) he weren’t an actual cambion?” Meg poised her hands over the keys, waiting. While her meatsuit had been desperate to become an actress, she’d had the sense to acquire some useful skills, like secretarial-speed typing, to keep herself alive till she got her big break.

Claire crossed the room, put the book back on the shelf, and batted Meg’s hands aside. She typed in her password, what seemed like a string of random letters, numbers, and symbols, and then opened her browser. Her home page was, naturally, Livejournal.

Meg stared at the familiar image, scanned words she’d read earlier that night. Was it really only earlier that night? Then she typed in “merlin cambion” on Google and glared at the top hits. _Twilight_? What did _Twilight_ have to do with either Merlin or cambions in general?

Stupid sparkly vampires. Had to kill them on principal. Benny was a _real_ vampire.

Meg pushed him aside in her mind and drummed her fingers on the table top. Then she shook her head, rose up. “I’m going to check out some leads on Merlin. Do some research for me – find any cambion omens. I’m crossing the pond.”

“Glad we could have this conversation in person,” Claire said, and once again, Meg vanished in a whiff of sulfur.

Meg went from Wales, UK to an island in the Mediterranean rumored to be the last of the Atlantean Archipelago and possible home of Caliban, a cambion from Shakespeare’s _The Tempest_. She spoke to many a local, possessed a few who refused to talk to her, and flitted back to civilization to steal free wifi from that Starbucks in Boston and check in with Claire.

By the time fall break ended, Meg knew more than she’d ever wanted about cambions (the mere mention of them made even the Knights of Hell shudder). Claire was exhausted and grumpy and only speaking English half of the time after reading so many primary sources in Latin. Amelia Novak was none the wiser. Meg stopped by Broceliande Forest, the legendary burial place of Merlin. Apart from some woefully uneducated wiccans dancing naked in the moonlight, the forest held nothing of note, so Meg moved on.

The best sources seemed to agree that Merlin Ambrosius was entirely made up by Geoffrey of Monmouth, and that the true Merlin was Myrddin Wyllt, a madman and a prophet.

Meg, curled up in a corner of an abandoned warehouse in Phoenix, listened to Claire speaking quietly on the other end of their call so as not to alert her mother. Meg had had to listen as Claire lied to her mother and told her what a wonderful time she had in the cabin with Ina and her grandmother, who, despite the temperature, roasted an entire pig island style and tried in vain to teach Claire how to hula. Then she had to listen to Claire yawning every other sentence.

“So, assuming Merlin the cambion as you know him wasn’t who he was made up to be to make Monmouth feel better about his lousy writing, then Wales is key,” Claire said. She yawned yet again. Apparently her mother strongly disapproved of coffee and Claire wasn’t allowed to have it while she was home.

“I’ve already been to Wales,” Meg said.

“Keep looking.” And Claire disconnected.

Meg stared down at her phone, disgusted, and resisted the urge to teleport to where she knew Claire was, give her mother a heart attack, and then give the girl a piece of her mind to boot.

But Claire was right. They’d exhausted all of the possibilities from the ancient literature. Assuming Merlin was even still alive – and Meg was assuming, because someone would have mentioned it if he appeared Down Below – he wasn’t hanging around the Old Country. He’d been capable of traveling great distances long before airplanes. He could be, literally, anywhere. Demons, like humans, enjoyed symbolism and patterns. If he wasn’t in Wales itself, he was somewhere like it. Or somewhere with the same name. Naturally, there were thirteen other municipalities in the world called “Wales”, and Meg had to check every one of them. None of them, according to Claire, had manifested cambion omens. In fact, no cambion omens had occurred anywhere in the world since Jesse Turner.

Meg sighed, packed up her gear, and headed for the first alternate Wales on the list, which was in South Yorkshire, England. Castiel had damn well better be grateful when all this was said and done. Meg was done with ingratitude from the people she’d rescued.

Wales, Utah was probably the most similar to Wales, the country, if only because the sheep seemed to greatly outnumber the people. Meg was walking along Highway 132, greatly regretting her own dedication to this particular cause, when her phone rang.

She fished it out of her pocket. Claire never called with good news. The last good news Meg had heard was that she didn’t have to go after the _Antichrist_ alone. She wasn’t sure she wanted to face down a regular cambion alone either. Claire’s good news would probably involve going after just the Antichrist’s adoptive mother or something equally suicidal.

“What now, Mini Vessel?” Dean always had quippy nicknames for people. Meg was trying a new one on Claire with each phone call. Claire was surprisingly long suffering about the trend. 

“Hey, sister.”

Meg stopped in her tracks. “Benny?”

He chuckled. His voice, velvety smooth and baritone, was hoarse with overuse. Vampires didn’t get colds. What had happened to him? “Turns out I’m not the emo vampire you thought I was,” he said. “But I’m in a bit of a pickle, and I was wondering if you still thought of us as us, and whether you could come help me out.”

Meg hadn’t been lying. She couldn’t take the Antichrist on without backup. She was hesitant to take on even a lesser cambion without backup. More than once, she’d found herself humming “In the Hall of the Mountain King” as she wandered along rural roads. “Where are you?”

“Lebanon, Kansas. I thought this was the place to find Dean, but he isn’t here. Others of his kind are, though. They’re a little less open-minded about my kind.” Benny’s tone was calm, unhurried. 

Too calm for a vampire with hunters on his tail. If Meg came to his rescue, she’d be walking into a trap. “What are your coordinates?”

Benny echoed, “Coordinates?” He paused. Anyone else would assume he was calculating them. Instead he was waiting for his captors to provide them. 

He rattled them off, and Meg nodded, said she’d been on her way there to check on him and would be there in a few hours (no doubt his captors were listening to the entire conversation). She didn’t go straight to the coordinates. But she teleported close by. 

An abandoned farmhouse on the outskirts of a rural town. So unoriginal. Sadly, most monsters were stupid, so hunters who borrowed from the Winchester playbook could get by. The Winchesters hadn’t written the playbook, though – they’d learnt from other older, more experienced hunters. Some of the newest crop of hunters could stand to learn from the actual written Winchester playbooks, or they wouldn’t have relied solely on anti-vampire defenses. 

Meg shinned up a pipe next to one of the windows with inhuman agility and peeked through the dusty, broken glass. The hunters were, predictably, white males of the unwashed, flannel-wearing variety. Benny knelt in a circle of them. They were posed like the worst flannel rainbow ever, pointing a dozen silver weapons at Benny’s head. 

Just a dozen? These boys really hadn’t done their homework. 

“What now?” one of the younger ones asked. 

“Keep an eye on him. We’ll set up a perimeter. Spring loaded dart guns with dead man’s blood,” the oldest said. At his nod, two other men peeled away from the group guarding Benny and started toward a stack of duffel bags in the corner, no doubt containing an arsenal designed to fend off a vampire nest. Benny’s nest was dead. 

For two seconds Meg wondered why he hadn’t rescued himself, and then she remembered he didn’t like killing humans. He’d been willing to end a hunter before, but that was just one hunter, and one Dean already disliked as it was. A dozen hunters, including a kid who would probably remind Dean of baby Sammy, was another story. 

“How much time have we got?” one of the hunters asked. 

“Assuming she was lying –” the old man said. 

The other hunters made a variety of animalistic sounds of derision. Of course monsters lied. 

“An hour, tops. Vampires move faster than humans, after all. So if she’s three hours out at the most, cut the time in half. And assume she’s bringing others with her.” The old man loaded a shotgun with practiced ease. 

The young, Sammy-reminiscent one, sneered at Benny. “They think we’re so stupid, that we’ll believe their lies. No vampire can withstand the desire for human blood for very long.”

“Yeah. That’s only in books,” said another hunter who was a brother or a cousin, judging by their similar facial features. 

A smattering of snickers ran through the crowd. Someone mentioned _Twilight_ , and there was more laughter. 

“Blood bank donations my ass,” the kid said. 

Meg had heard enough. She shinned back down the drainpipe, headed over to one of the cars – a gleaming black muscle car – and set down her backpack. She fished out her weapons – Purgatory axe, hunting knife – and armed herself. Then she straightened up, squared her shoulders, and headed for the barn doors. She borrowed a bit of drama and threw the double doors open, Aragorn at Helm’s Deep style. 

Cries of alarm rang out, but the hunters weren’t total idiots, and Meg was staring down the business end of myriad firearms when she stepped into the barn. 

She flashed them her brightest, most disturbing smile. “Guess I was already in the neighborhood. Heya, Benny. How’s tricks?”

“Meg.” He inclined his head politely, all Southern charm even while a hostage to murderous hunters. He was so old-fashioned. “As you can see, tricks aren’t so good right now.”

“The correct response is ‘silly rabbit, Trix are for kids’, but I’ll let it slide since that was both before and after your time.”

The kid blinked sweat out of his eyes. “How did you get here so fast?”

Meg cocked her head at him. “What are they teaching you youngsters in hunting school these days? I teleported.”

She enjoyed the confusion that crossed the hunters’ faces for two seconds before she let her eyes flicker black. 

Expletives littered the air. 

“Demon!” the old man shouted. The men stared in horror. 

With a flick of her hand, Meg swept them aside. Then she was across the barn and tugging Benny to his feet. “Hey, partner. So nice to hear from you after all these weeks. What have you been up to?”

Benny eyed her axe. “Not killing humans. I ain’t about to start now.”

She arched her eyebrow at him. “I don’t have the same moral compass as you, Louis. As your new friends pointed out – demon. So, want to stay and fight?”

“I don’t want to kill anybody,” Benny said. 

Meg sighed and holstered her axe. “I didn’t say we’d have to.”

“Fisticuffs? With humans? We spent a year fighting off Leviathans. This would be about as interesting as watching a pot boil.”

Meg grinned at him. “C’mon. You know you kind of miss it. Think of it as a warm-up to the challenges ahead. Defeat a dozen humans, no killing allowed.”

The hunters climbed to their feet, shook themselves out. Some headed for the weapon bags. They’d come armed for vampires, but they’d be fools not to be prepared for other monsters as well. 

What followed next was beautifully controlled chaos. Baby hunter fired a dart. Dead man’s blood did nothing to Meg. She blinked across the room in a whiff of sulfur, punched the kid in the face. Benny lashed out, caught a man across the jaw. It was on. 

The hunters were smart, tried to back Meg and Benny into a corner to overwhelm them with the number advantage. Meg let them think they were winning. Then she teleported herself and Benny out of the corner and started throwing punches at the rear ranks. On earth, combat was messier. Lesser opponents required lesser skill, and Meg was sloppy. That annoyed her. Knowing she was uncoordinated, winging punches and missing openings annoyed her even more. She missed it, the perfect cadence of defeating Leviathans. 

One of the hunters got smart, spray-painted a devil’s trap behind the rear ranks to catch Meg when she teleported out of the corner again.

The hunter wasn’t smart enough. A few verses of Latin, a blast of power, and the devil’s trap broke. The fear and shock on the hunter’s face was invigorating. Benny, who’d hovered near Meg to protect her while she was trapped, let out a whistle of admiration and then dove back into the fray. 

Just to be contrary, Meg pinned a couple of hunters to the walls with her telekinesis while Benny toyed with half a dozen more. They’d circled him like high school thugs at a schoolyard brawl, but they were unprepared for how fast and vicious he was. Any other hunters who tried to join the brawl were gently swept aside by Meg. 

Then Baby Hunter said, “Grandpa, wait.”

Of course the old man was called Grandpa. “Not now, Johnny.”

“It’s Juan,” the boy said automatically. His expression turned pleading. He’d made a circle of salt to stand in, and he straightened up, raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Grandpa – they haven’t killed us. I don’t think they want to kill us. Maybe if we stop –”

“They’re monsters,” Grandpa snarled. “They’ll never stop.”

“Kid’s right, though,” Benny said. He parried a weak punch. “We haven’t even started, so you can’t say we’ll never stop.” 

Grandpa looked unconvinced by a monster’s logic. Meg tossed her head, pinned another determined hunter to the wall. “Enough is enough,” she said. “We’ve had our fun. Let’s be on our way.”

Juan’s older brother dragged a fist over his mouth, wiped away blood from one of Benny’s well-placed punches. “Where the hell would you go?”

Meg flicked black eyes at him again. “Hi. I’m a demon. I can teleport. Anywhere I want. And where I want to go is away from here.” She lifted her chin at Benny. “You were right. This is boring.” She offered a hand like Mr. Darcy inviting Lizzie Bennet to dance.

“You said this would be just a warm-up.” Benny raised his eyebrows at her. “What’s coming?”

“You’ll see. But not here.” Meg was across the barn in an instant. She clapped a hand on Benny’s shoulder, and the scent of sulfur exploded in the air around her. In her wake, she could hear Juan shouting after her.

“Why didn’t you kill us?”

She landed them just outside the barn where she’d hidden her backpack. Benny stumbled, disoriented at the sudden discombobulation and reconstitution process of the molecules of his entire being. Meg scooped up her backpack, cast a sharp glance at Benny.

“Got your feet, sailor?”

He nodded. “That’s a hell of a lot faster than driving. Or flying.”

“Any supplies we need to get?”

Benny stared at the barn for a long moment, then shook his head. “There’s nothing for me here.”

Meg clapped a hand on his arm again. “Okay.”

They landed right where Meg had left off of, on the side of Highway 132 heading for Wales, Utah.

Benny looked sick this time. Meg took a big step back in case he decided to hurl up some blood, but besides him doubling over and making terrible retching sounds, nothing happened.

“I’d heard traveling Angel Air constipates some humans,” Meg said. “I didn’t think Demon Air would make vampires air sick.”

“I’ll take vomit over constipation any day.” Benny straightened up, clearing his throat. Meg reached into her backpack and handed him a bottle of ordinary water. She could have it blessed in a pinch. It wasn’t as if she needed to drink the stuff herself.

Benny accepted the bottle with a grateful bob of his head and turned away to rinse out his mouth. Why he bothered turning away to spit was a bit of a mystery to Meg, who understood that what he was doing was gentlemanly behavior, but they’d killed monsters together. She’d seen him ram his club through a Leviathan’s chest and rip it out the top of the creature’s skull. A little swishing and spitting was hardly uncouth by comparison.

“So, we’re hunting a cambion,”Meg said. “We need to cut its heart out.”

Benny choked. He spun around to face her, eyes wide. “What? Why?”

Meg grinned. “To do a spell. Now come on. Let’s go find a motel.” She resumed marching in the direction of Ephraim, the largest municipality in the county.

“Why a motel?”

“We need somewhere to stay while we do research,” Meg said. “Are you in?”

“In for what?”

Meg told him.


	10. Chapter 10

Benny stared down at the unicorn notebook, pale, shocked. He was perched on the corner of his motel bed and looked liable to topple off of it like a felled tree any moment.

“So a teenage girl hired you to hunt a half-demon, who’s basically the Antichrist, and cut out his heart so you can heal her mother?”

Meg snatched the notebook from his limp grasp and turned to her own note section. Compared to Claire, her handwriting looked positively schoolmarm-ish. “Actually, we need the heart of a cambion, the kiss of a succubus, and the ichor of a demon to reverse a single action of a single archangel, in this case Metatron, and restore Castiel’s grace so Castiel can heal Claire’s mother.”

Benny buried his face in one hand. He was unmoving, unbreathing. If Meg didn’t know better, she’d have thought he’d died then and there. But then he lifted his head, peered at her from between his fingers.

“What’s a succubus kiss, anyway?”

“Not sure.” Meg waggled her phone at him. “As it turns out, a cupid’s bow is on its hand. So maybe a succubus kiss also some kind of body part.”

“Did your phone tell you that? That kind of thing is on, what are the kids calling it these days, Google?” Benny straightened up, surprised.

Meg smirked. “Nope. It was in _Supernatural_.”

Benny sighed and shook his head. “Of course it was. How did this Claire kid know how to find you, anyway?”

“She also read the books, which contained the spell to open Purgatory, the ingredients to power the spell, and the fact that I ended up there.” 

“And I was just along for the ride?”

“Kind of like Dean and Cas riding Dick to Purgatory.”

Benny’s expression twisted, like a father seeing his daughter kiss a boy for the first time.

Meg rewound her most recent string of words, replayed it in her head. “Right. That came out dirtier than I intended. Bet there’s fanfiction out there for it, though.”

Benny buried his face in his hands again. “You’re insane.”

“Hi, I’m Meg. I’m a demon.”

“Being a demon does not excuse the majority of your behavior, you realize.” Benny’s voice was muffled.

Meg flopped back on the bed – stiff as a board, not as light as a feather, and covered with a floral bedspread to match walls that had been papered out of a Victorian florist catalogue. She was pretty sure not even the Winchesters had stayed somewhere so ugly. “So are you in or not?”

“Do I have to kill any humans?”

“Pretty sure Claire would frown upon that,” Meg said. Claire hadn’t specifically forbidden Meg from killing any mortals, but that would probably negate the purity of the sacrifice of going on a noble quest to save an angel so he could heal a favored mortal. Although if the books were anything to go by, Amelia Novak hadn’t been a favored mortal as much as she’d been collateral damage. “Strictly monsters. Besides, do you have anything better to do other than getting jumped by mildly incompetent inbred gangs of hunters?”

“I haven’t killed a single human,” Benny said, “but being topside hasn’t been easy.”

Meg tilted her head up enough to arch an eyebrow at him. “Has it been easier than Purgatory?”

“Well, slower-paced.”

“Then shut up.” Meg sat up. “We need better supplies than my phone and my sad little hunting pack. We need a better phone for you, a laptop or a tablet, and some more weapons for you. And maybe a car. Do you want a car?”

“Why do I need a better phone? Or a car? You can teleport.”

Meg cast him a withering look. “I can see why Dean liked you. He likes them dumb.”

Benny threw his empty water bottle at her.

She batted it aside with ease. “Humans will be weirded out by us teleporting,” she said. “Also, a smartphone, a tablet, and a laptop will make our research more efficient. We can both research at the same time. And I can show you _Star Wars_ , as well. What do you say, Rufus?”

Benny had been nodding his agreement right up until that last sentence. “Who’s Rufus?”

“If we’re going to be LARPing as hunters, I’m totally playing Bobby.”

“What the hell is LARPing?”

“Surprisingly enough, not something thought up in Hell. Humans are an inventive lot.” Meg raised her eyebrows at him. “So, hunting? Are you with me? Gonna be my Sammy, my wing man?”

“I sure as hell ain’t that –”

“Yes you are. Both so packed full of angst. If someone smushed both your souls into one person, that person would cry himself to death.” Meg grinned at him when he scowled at her. “C’mon. Dean would love you forever if you fixed his BFF angel.”

Benny continued to scowl at her. “If I’m doing this, it won’t be for Dean.”

“For me? I’m flattered.”

“Not you, either.”

Meg flapped a careless hand at him. “Whatever. So, listen up. This is the plan.” It was better for Benny if he joined his quest for himself. She wasn’t his wife or his shrink, though. If he couldn’t figure that out on his own, when they were done she’d let him cry himself to death.

The plan wasn’t terribly glamorous. In fact, it was downright boring. Meg had suffered through a lot of boring on Claire Novak’s behalf. Occasionally Meg called and left long, rambling complaints on Claire’s voicemail. 

“How did you learn so much about cars?” Benny asked under cover of sipping some hot cocoa.

Meg waggled her phone at him absently. They’d walked over to the Wal-mart in Ephraim to get a better phone for Benny, a laptop, a tablet, and some simple “sporting goods” supplies to convert into a basic hunting kit for him. Then they’d headed to a garage in town and purchased an old, beat-up 1969 Mustang coupe, which they drove as far as Wales before it broke down.

A kindly elderly mechanic towed them into the town itself (population 227) and let them have complimentary hot cocoa and seats at the little table outside the convenience store attached to his garage. It was the only gas station/convenience store in town. In fact, it was the only commercial business in town besides the post office. The mechanic, Loren, told them it was brand new, had only opened a couple of years ago, and everyone in town stopped by eventually on their way to or from work. Wales was all houses and farms, a fire station, cemetery, and library. There was no park, and no other shops or restaurants.

There was a lot of sheep to be had.

“The library might be more comfortable for you folks,” Loren’s wife, Grace, said. She stood in the doorway of the garage wearing an apron and curlers and fretting.

Meg waggled her phone at Grace. “My friend and I both have research to do. I guess our car couldn’t have broken down at a more convenient time. We can get some work done, uninterrupted.”

Grace wrung her hands. “You sure you don’t need an afghan or something? The days are getting cold.”

“We’re fine, thank you, ma’am,” Benny said. He cast Meg another unreadable look, part admiration, part disbelief. She wasn’t actually a genius when it came to cars. She’d managed to kill the car in just the right spot because she’d hooked up a killswitch in the thing. It had sputtered and died up the road within viewing distance of Loren’s garage. Meg removed the killswitch transmitter under cover of poking ineffectually at the engine and let the age of the car do the rest. Now she had an endless supply of hot cocoa and time to research the spell Claire thought she ought to use.

Benny was on succubus duty, trawling police reports for any patterns of succubus activity. Meg made him read “Sex and Violence” first.

“It’s about sirens, not succubuses,” he protested after scanning the plot overview.

“Succubi,” she said, shaking her head. Kids these days who didn’t learn Latin. “And also, succubi and sirens have very similar MO’s. Except for the part where sirens are mutants and succubi are demons. So read. And then find.”

She couldn’t wait to see the look on his face when he realized that Dean’s siren was the ultimate (white, male) hunting partner and Sam’s was a hot female doctor. And that there would be details about Sam and the hot doctor.

Claire was right, though. Information on the demon-killing spell _defigere et depurgare_ was pretty scant, but it involved a hex bag and an incantation known only by the creating witch who, according to the website, died sometime back in the seventeenth century. In Scotland. Meg pursed her lips. Scotland. Witch. Seventeenth century. Crowley once mentioned his mother was a witch. Could the creator of this demon-killing spell, this Rowena, be his mother? No. There were plenty of witches running around back then, and why would she have created a spell to kill demons when her own son was one?

Unlike the heart of a virgin spell Ruby once recommended, the spell Claire was suggesting sounded like the best bet. After all, all demons in the blast radius – including, say, the demon who did the spell – would be blasted back to Hell. According to the most recent email from Claire, _defigere et depurgare_ would turn a demon into ichor instead of simply sending his smoke careening back to hell.

Meg emailed back, inquiring how Claire knew that even though the internet was completely devoid of all such resources.

Claire replied that there was a new prophet in town, and she’d made friends with said prophet.

Meg blinked at the laptop screen for two seconds, then whipped out her cell phone and called Claire. It went straight to voicemail, but seeing how it was the middle of the day and Claire was a college student, Meg shouldn’t have been surprised. “Hey, Feathers Junior. Call me about your new friend,” Meg said, “and see if your friend can’t save us from sitting here all day.”

Sitting there all day wasn’t just sitting there. Benny was folded into his peacoat on the chair opposite Meg, his hot cocoa mostly untouched but for when Meg filched sips of it. He tapped cautiously at the screen of the tablet Meg had bought for him, reading a _Supernatural_ book all on his own. Meg glanced at him occasionally, waiting for the moment when the realization hit, and set about researching cambion omens.

Claire had come up empty, since the only cambions she knew of were Jesse Turner, who had used his power childishly when it manifested, Caliban from Shakespeare’s _The Tempest_ , who was, as far as Google was concerned, a fictional character, and Merlin, who was also mostly made up. Meg was a demon, however, and since a cambion was half-demon, cambion omens would be similar to a demon’s.

“Need a top-up on that cocoa?” Grace appeared in the doorway, still wearing an apron over her house dress, though the curlers were gone./

Benny looked up, blinked, then glanced down at his empty mug. Meg favored Grace with a sunny smile. “Why, yes please. Thank you so much.” She nudged both of their mugs within easy reach of Grace’s teapot. 

Grace reached into her apron pocket and handed Meg a little packet of marshmallows. “To sweeten things up,” she said, and smiled knowingly, tipping her head in Benny’s direction.

“Thanks,” Meg said, because she adored junk food and could indulge in it as much as she wanted.

Loren poked his head out of the garage, hollered for Benny to come look at the mess that was the engine. He did that occasionally, assuming that Benny, as the male in the partnership, was responsible for all things automotive. Benny apparently knew enough about engines from his sailing days to be able to nod and make agreeing sounds in all the right places, for Loren hadn’t stopped calling on him.

“I can’t believe you let your little lady buy this clunker,” Loren said, scratching his head and leaving streaks of grease across his bald pate.

Benny chuckled. “I don’t let her do much,” he said.

Grace leaned in toward Meg, lowered her voice. “How long have you and Benny been together?”

“We met about a year ago,” Meg said. “Some men attacked me, and Benny saved me.” It was both a truth and an untruth. 

Grace pressed a hand to her throat. “You poor thing! It was such good fortune, then, that Benny was there.” She rested her hip against the door jamb, still holding the kettle. “So, what are you two doing out here?”

“We’re traveling the country together, collecting urban legends,” Meg said. She’d seen that excuse used by Sam and Dean in books before, and people bought it.

Grace laughed. “We’re not very urban here.”

“Not just urban legends,” Meg said. “Also local folklore. Americans seem to think folklore belongs only to the old country or the Natives, but America has its own legends, and we’re trying to compile them into one comprehensive narrative.” Thank you, random fanfiction writer who was a literature major and who took her fandom to work.

“That’s really impressive,” Grace said. “Found anything good so far?”

Meg nodded. “Lots. Demons, vampires, werewolves, angels.”

Grace looked alarmed. “Demons?”

“There are legends,” Meg said, “about places across America that are actually gates to Hell.”

“Be careful,” Grace said. “If you go meddling too much with that business – well, it comes meddling with you.”

Right. Utah. Small town, conservative Christians. “It’s just research, ma’am,” Meg said, keeping her tone light and friendly. “We want to know what stories people tell. Like this town – used to be a coal mining town, right? Called Wales for all the Welsh miners who settled here. Are there any legends about the mines?”

The question was the right one to ask. While Benny hunkered down and fought off expressions of dawning realization and horror as he progressed through his ebook, Grace summoned many of her neighbors and friends to come tell Meg any local stories they’d heard from their parents and grandparents. If anyone stopped by the convenience store to buy gas or pick up supplies, Grace waved them over to join the conversation. Meg took notes on the laptop, because she had to sell the story, but she was also listening for any signs of cambion presence.

And she was counting off in her head every person she met, counting down from the population total. She pressed out subtly with her gifts, checking for any demonic auras in the polite, friendly caucasian men and women who came over to say hello to the youngsters passing through, but so far all of them were human.

Benny finished the book by the time lunchtime rolled around and shoved it aside. He cast Meg a few glares, which she answered with smirks and grins from behind her mug of hot cocoa. Grace brought them some chicken salad sandwiches, homemade pumpkin cookies, and carrot sticks. Benny insisted on paying her, but she said she didn’t mind because she didn’t usually have company, and the store was generally quiet all day, and conversation with Meg was payment enough.

While they ate – Benny slowly, cautiously, Meg with gusto – Grace asked them about their plans for the future. Benny looked alarmed. Meg contemplated the best way to sanitize the killing of someone Grace probably thought as a friend and neighbor. Benny darted Meg a pointed look, which she couldn’t quite read, because she was distracted.

There, by one of the pumps, was a tall, slender, long-legged boy who looked barely older than nineteen. He had glossy dark hair, cheekbones that could cut glass, and bright, bright blue eyes.

He looked like Merlin.

Not Merlin with the long white beard, blue robe, and star-spangled pointy hat. Like Merlin the kid who popped up as the first hit on Google when one typed “Merlin” into the search bar. He wasn’t so brazen as to be wearing the brown jacket, blue shirt, and bright red scarf, but it was definitely him.

Him, the cambion, not him, the actor. There was no good reason for the actor to be hanging around Wales, Utah. It was entirely within reason, however, that Myrddin Wyllt, the cambion, would take on the appearance of the most recent incarnation of his namesake as a subtle statement of ego and twisted amusement. In this small town of farmers and retirees, probably no one recognized him, and he could enjoy his joke openly.

Benny stomped on her foot, hard, dragging her back into the conversation with Grace. “I don’t know, Meg. What do you think about children?”

“Cute from a distance and while unconscious, messy and obnoxious up close, best baked into a muffin, why?” She turned back to look at him and kicked him in the ankle, jerked her head in Merlin’s direction.

Grace looked horrified.

Benny glanced at Merlin, confused.

Meg replayed her words, realized her demonic humor was lost on humans, and flashed Grace a reassuring smile. “Just kidding. I can’t have kids, so I guess I don’t think about it much.”

Immediately Grace’s horror melted into sympathy, and she patted Meg on the hand. “Poor dear. Well, it’s a good thing you have Benny looking out for you.”

Meg resisted the urge to snatch her hand back. “Benny and I look out for each other.”

Grace patted her hand again. “Of course you do, dear. Feminists these days.”

Meg craned her neck to peer around Grace. The cambion was still pumping gas into his beat-up pick-up truck.

Grace must have noticed her distraction, for she followed Meg’s gaze. When she saw the cambion, her face lit up.

“Walt! C’mon over here. We have tourists.”

He looked up, blinked. Meg tugged her demon powers down, down, down, hoped she portrayed human or, at the very worst, witch as much as possible.

“Walt” finished filling his car and replaced the gas nozzle, closed his gas tank. Then he jammed his hands into his jacket pockets and ambled over. His expression was friendly and open. If Meg hadn’t known what he was, she’d have thought him adorable. Expendable, breakable, but adorable.

“Hey, Grace.” He had a bland American accent. 

“Walt’s ancestors came over here with the original pioneer settlement,” Grace said, “but his parents moved away before he was born. Now he’s back and reviving the family homestead.”

Meg offered a hand, left her handshake weak. “Walt? That’s not a name I hear for kids our age these days.”

He ducked his head, blushing, and he was like a male Snow White, all dark hair and pale skin, ruby-red lips. “My mom liked Disney, and I had big ears even as a baby –” He tugged on one ear ruefully. “So I guess I’m just thankful I avoided being named Mickey Mouse.”

It was a cute story, but he’d picked Walt because Wyllt was a little too unusual to go unnoticed by, say, a hunter with a research streak the size of Sam Winchester.

“This is Meg and Benny,” Grace said, and Benny offered his hand as well.

Meg watched Merlin for any signs of discomfort, of noticing how cold Benny’s skin was, but if Merlin noticed what Benny was, he gave no sign.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said, and he still sounded utterly sincere. Meg could have detected insincerity in an instant if she dared to reach out with her powers, but that was a terrible idea, because when he was this close, she could feel power rolling off of him in waves. How could no one else sense it? Even the most third eye blind idiot would have been able to sense the magic inherent in him. 

Benny was either seriously insensitive to the supernatural or a supernal actor, because his smile was equally polite. “You too.” He practically oozed southern charm. “Everyone in your town has been so hospitable.”

“It’s our home, and we’re proud of it.” Merlin stepped back, tucked his hands into his pockets again. “We’re always glad when others are willing to call it home, too, even if only briefly. So, what brings you through these parts?”

“We’re researchers,” Benny said. “Folklorists by trade. Looking to learn about some of America’s best-kept legends.”

Amusement lit in Merlin’s eyes. “I see. And you thought Wales, Utah was the place to come?”

“Actually, my little lady has mildly terrible taste in cars and ours broke down nearby. Loren and Grace have been kind enough to put us up while the thing gets fixed.” Benny smiled at Meg with an unexpected softness, and she floundered momentarily.

But she recovered herself and said, “Grace has also been telling me all about the legends people have around here, about the coal mines and all. I’ve noticed that a lot of the local legends are transplants from the old country, but with modern twists.” Briefly, she met Merlin’s gaze.

The amusement in his eyes took on a darker gleam. “That’s true. For all that America claims to be a melting pot, it takes its various heritages very seriously. Take my family. Also from Wales, like so many others here. They say that some of the ancestors who came over weren’t good Christian pioneers at all, that they were druids carrying on the ancient traditions of Laloken, Taliesin, and Myrddin, and that one of these coal mines houses a portal to Avalon where, if the proper price is paid, one can awaken King Arthur.”

Grace swatted him on the arm. “I’ve never heard that one before. How long have you been hiding that little gem?”

Merlin shrugged and ducked his head, bashful, and that gleam in his eyes was gone. “You know my grandparents, so proud of crossing the plains with the other pioneers. Pretty sure they didn’t want rumors of paganism ruining their second lease on life.”

Grace beamed at Meg. “Won’t that make a lovely addition to your book?”

“Indeed it will,” Meg said. She’d dutifully typed notes on the laptop to avoid Merlin’s gaze. Did he know what they were, who they were, why they were there? Was that why he’d mentioned his legendary alter ego? Or was that just his ego talking, like his face and his name?

“Hope your car is fixed soon,” Merlin said. He nodded politely at Grace. “I’d better get to class.” And he headed back to his truck.

“Class?” Benny asked.

“He’s a student at Snow College. It’s just over in Manti,” Grace said.

“What’s he studying?” Meg feigned an expression of interest.

“History, I think. He really is such a nice young man. Shame about his parents, though. He was quite young when they passed.” Grace nudged Meg in the shoulder with her elbow. “You two have been together for a year, you say? And Benny hasn’t popped the question yet?”

Meg choked on a mouthful of hot cocoa, burned her throat for an instant before her demonic power soothed the pain away.

It was Benny’s turn to smirk.

“Um –” Meg floundered. 

Grace flapped a hand at her. “I know, you’re one of those modern feminists, and marriage is so old-fashioned, but young Benjamin is such a dedicated soul. He protects you, he shares your passions, he’s got that darling accent – you really couldn’t do better.”

“He’s a great cook, too,” Meg said. All those times Sam and Dean hadn’t been aware people thought they were a couple, she’d thought them stupid for being oblivious. As it turned out, when it was impossible for two people to be a couple, it was almost impossible to conceive of the notion that others might think they were a couple. She and Benny would never be a couple. “Makes a mean bowl of gumbo.”

Benny reached across the table, slid a hand over hers, gave it a fond squeeze. Meg was so shocked she froze and didn’t pull away, which worked out to her advantage. “Meg’s just the cautious type. Last two fellas she was with burned her pretty bad. I’m patient.” His smile was downright endearing.

Meg threw up in her mouth a little. Then she swallowed it down and smiled up at Grace as best as she could. “Benny and I are waiting for the right time is all.”

Grace clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “Well, don’t wait too long. Even a knight in shining armor doesn’t wait forever.”

Meg resisted the urge to point out that true knights in shining armor didn’t wait at all when they could exercise _droit de seigneur_. Instead she nodded. “Thanks.”

Grace glanced at her watch, and her eyebrows flew up to her graying hairline. “Goodness gracious! I better get inside and fix Loren some dinner. Would you two like to join us?”

Loren poked his head out of the garage. “Your car’s right about fixed up,” he said to Benny. “If’n you like, you could head over into Ephraim. They have real nice restaurants there.” He wagged his wrench at Benny. “You know, now that it’s fixed up, this car ain’t so bad. Slap a coat of paint on it, replace a few other parts, and she’ll purr like a kitten. Maybe your little lady doesn’t have such terrible taste in cars after all.”

“Thank you kindly,” Benny said. “How much do we owe you?” He started to reach for his wallet, then froze. He didn’t have nearly enough cash to cover such a large job. Good thing they’d gotten the car for a steal. 

Meg rose up, drawing her wallet from her jacket smoothly as she went. “Indeed, how much?” Benny didn’t know enough about modern economics to start a credit card scam. He probably hadn’t been topside long enough to start one anyway even if he knew how.

Grace shook her head. “Feminists.”

Benny recovered quickly. “She does make more money than me.”

Meg drew a wad of cash out of her wallet, probably more than could conceivably fit in her wallet if one paid attention to conventional physics. Loren raised his eyebrows and told her his fee. Meg counted out the full amount plus a few extra dollars as a tip for the speedy work and hospitality. Loren and Grace saw them off from the doorway of the garage. Loren actually took off his cap and waved it at them as they departed.

“What kind of a car is this?” Benny asked.

Meg rolled her eyes. “Seriously? When did you cease being human, exactly?” She knew from the books that he’d been down in Purgatory for about fifty years. Fifty years back from 2013 was the 1950’s. “Were cars still like boats?”

“You have no place to mock,” Benny said. “Couldn’t you tell they thought we were together?”

“Of course we’re together – we’re a team,” Meg snapped. They didn’t need to get food. But they did need some anti-demon supplies. Bottled water to convert into holy water. Salt. Holy oil. Good thing this part of the country was loaded with conservative Christians. They had holy oil and holy water to spare.

“They think we’re dating and on our way to being married,” Benny corrected, and he had the temerity to laugh. “I can’t believe you didn’t notice.”

“And I can’t believe _you_ didn’t notice,” Meg shot back.

Benny guided the car into the Wal-mart parking lot. “I thought we had enough supplies for hunting.”

“Basic hunting,” said Meg. “Not going after a full-on cambion.”

Benny cut the engine and they climbed out. After he locked the car, he tossed the keys to Meg, who caught them deftly. “Why didn’t we get it all at once?”

“I needed to see what we were going up against, which you didn’t notice.”

“But I did notice.”

“You did?”

“Yeah. You had Grace bring all the adults in town to you so you could meet them, talk to them, find out about them. It was a pretty good plan, but I don’t think we saw enough adults. Couldn’t you have broken the car enough for us to stick around for a few days?” Benny made for the automatic doors. He walked with his shoulders curled in and his chin ducked down into his collar so people wouldn’t look at him. He still didn’t think of himself as a person.

Meg smirked up at him. Despite their height difference, she could keep pace with him. After months of walking in Purgatory with him, she instinctively paced her strides to match his, three steps for every one of his two. “Then you didn’t notice.”

“Sure I did. The plan. Didn’t work.”

“Sure it did,” Meg said. “I found him.”

Benny raised his eyebrows. “Our mark?”

Meg nodded. “The cambion.”

Benny stopped in his tracks. “Who?”

“Walt.” She unlocked her phone, did a quick Google search, handed it to him. “Take a look.”

“Well, I’ll be. It’s Walt.” He prodded her phone cautiously. “He’s an actor who played Merlin on a TV show?”

“No,” Meg said. “The cambion made himself look like Merlin from the TV show. His own private joke.”

Benny started walking again, slowly. “So...what’s the plan?”

“He’s half demon, half human,” Meg said. “Theoretically he has all the benefits of demonhood – power – but all the benefits of humanity – immunity to typical demon barriers.”

“Then why did we come here to stock up on anti-demon supplies?” Benny kept his voice low.

“I said _theoretically_.”

Benny followed Meg toward the sporting goods section. “Are there any other cambions we could take on?”

“One that I know of. And he’s scarier than Merlin.”

“Who could be scarier than Merlin? He was the greatest wizard of all time. Bent time and space and all that.” Benny waved a hand vaguely. He probably hadn’t read the books either.

“The Antichrist,” Meg said flatly.

Again, Benny stopped in his tracks.

Meg prodded him into moving toward storage water tanks for camping. “So Merlin is our better bet. Trust me.”

“You keep breaking my world view,” Benny protested.

“You’re supposed to learn something new every day.” Meg grabbed one tank, directed Benny to take the other. Then she paused, changed her mind.

“Forget the tanks. We need CamelBaks,” she said.

Benny obeyed slowly. “Is that a demon power? Turning people into animals?”

Meg hefted one of the boxes at him. “No. It’s a handy human invention. For keeping people hydrated. One for holy water, one for holy oil. We can attach them to some super-soakers and, voila! Cambion-busters.” She grinned up at Benny.

“That’s a pop culture reference,” he said. “Give a moment. Wait...Ghostbusters? They wore backpacks with guns attached, right?”

Meg beamed. “Good job! You learned your bad late night TV movies. Now, toys are this way.”


	11. Chapter 11

Merlin’s “family homestead” was on the outskirts of Wales, a sprawling log cabin that had probably been originally built a couple of centuries ago but had been restored to keep the rustic look over the years. Sprawling pastures behind the house were dotted with sheep. Merlin’s truck was parked next to what looked like a sheepfold made of rough-hewn branches.

The sun had set, and most of the people of Wales were snug in their warm houses, drinking hot cocoa while smoke streamed out of their chimneys. Meg and Benny were armed with their Purgatory weapons, their cambion-buster packs, and maybe some liquid courage (whiskey for Meg, AB- for Benny).

They’d hunkered in a tree near the house, camouflaged by some demon magic that would hopefully go unnoticed in whatever demonic protections Merlin had set for himself. The house had sprawling windows, so they could see Merlin inside as he cooked a late supper, then spread his textbooks and notebooks out on the dining table to do his homework.

“Would a cambion who’s a centuries-old wizard really be doing homework?” Benny whispered. “Wouldn’t he know everything about, well, everything? Especially history.”

“Only if he was everywhere all at once,” Meg whispered back.

“He could have been, with that power.”

“He’s not the Antichrist. Which is why I picked him.” Meg was annoyed that Claire hadn’t called her back, but both she and Benny had taken pains to shut off their cell phones in Ephraim before they headed back to Wales. No phone calls till the deed was done. Meg had seen enough horror movies to know one ill-timed phone call meant the death of a hapless teen or two. 

Merlin sat slumped over the dining table, hand buried in his hair. He looked tired, frustrated, and stumped. Meg squinted, but in a human body her senses were limited. She couldn’t read the title of the textbook he had just closed.

They’d discussed the plan. They’d go in through the back. As soon as he was settled back in at the dining table, they’d strike.

Benny shinned down the tree first. Meg teleported to the back so as to avoid making any noise as she climbed down. She had her holy oil gun poised as soon as she landed. Benny appeared beside her a moment later, and she signaled a go.

They started toward the back door in perfect Purgatory tandem.

It swung open.

Merlin leaned in the doorway, hands jammed in his pockets, expression disarmingly sweet. His eyes glowed golden with power.

Expletives in a thousand languages, few living, most dead, flew through Meg’s mind. He was one of Azazel’s cambions.

“I thought I recognized a sister,” he said. His eyes flickered back to that unearthly blue.

“Sister?” Benny’s tone was unreadable. 

Meg cleared her throat. “We were, in our own separate ways, made by the same demon.”

Merlin straightened up, beckoned for them to enter. “Come in. I’ve been looking for messengers from home.” There was a command in his words, like Andy and Ansem had. Benny jumped, startled, but obeyed. Meg could resist the words, but she knew better than to disobey.

Merlin’s kitchen was large, spacious, had been used to feed a large family in the past. Now it displayed the hallmarks of bachelorhood: paper plates and plastic utensils stacked on one counter, dirty mugs circling the sink, and an out-of-place quaint tin kettle on the stove. It was bubbling away, not quite boiling.

Merlin smiled. “Tea?”

“No, thank you,” Benny said. He clutched his super-soaker like it was a lifeline.

Merlin didn’t seem to notice how Meg and Benny were armed. Instead he rinsed one of the mugs, popped a tea bag into it, and leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. “How is our father?”

“Not my father, not really,” Meg said.

Merlin raised his eyebrows. “But he made you, as he made me. So you said.”

“Azazel is dead,” Meg said.

Merlin straightened up, surprise flitting across his face. “Dead? How? I didn’t think a demon could –”

“Humans are an inventive bunch – little Einsteins and Teslas, constantly nipping at our ankles,” Meg said. “They found ways.”

Merlin sank back, chin tucked to his chest, brooding. “You didn’t come here for a family reunion?”

Meg said, “No.”

“Then why are you here?”

Benny said, “To kill you.”

Merlin’s eyes flickered gold again. “Why? I have not wronged you.”

Meg bared her teeth in something not quite a smile. “It’s nothing personal. We just need parts of you.”

“Blood?” Merlin cupped a hand, and a blood-filled vial appeared. “I can give you blood.”

“Something a little more precious than blood,” Meg said, keeping her grip on her super-soaker tight.

“Bone? Skin? Semen?”

Benny made a choking noise at that last one.

Amusement crossed Merlin’s face. “Not much experience with witchcraft, eh? You’d be surprised at what bits people need for spells. I’m guessing it’s something more vital to continued living than mere DNA, or else you could have stolen hair or fingernail clippings or any number of my used mugs.”

Meg said nothing. Apart from the gold in his eyes, he was displaying no signs of great power, but he had it. Just because he was no antichrist didn’t mean he didn’t have substantial power. Claire was right, though – Meg was no demon to sneeze at.

“So what is it – liver, kidneys, lungs?”

“Thanks for the anatomy lesson,” Meg said, “but we really only want the one thing.”

“Brain?” Merlin guessed.

Benny darted a nervous glance at Meg. This wasn’t at all how this was supposed to go. She steeled herself. What could they do to take on a cambion? He had gone most of his existence assuming demons were invulnerable to humans. What had he been doing for the past one and a half millennia, that he didn’t know about devil’s traps and salt and holy water? All of those things had existed before he was born. Maybe they would all work on him.

Resignation settled across Merlin’s features. “Ah. My heart.”

The kettle began to whistle. Merlin actually turned his back on them to cross to the stove, fetch the kettle, and pour boiling water into his mug. Then he stirred the tea bag around to get the steeping started. Meg and Benny were left trapped between Merlin and the rest of the house. Their best chances at exit were to dive through a window or try to find the front door half-blind. If they could move at all. 

“Those are curious weapons you’re carrying,” Merlin said. “I’ve seen their like, but far away, on islands in the sea where boys kill sharks to become men and men open coconuts with bamboo spears.” He glanced over his shoulder. Amusement gleamed in his blue eyes once more. “Neither of you look like the distant island type. Unless you went there on honeymoon? Although Grace was all wrong about that, wasn’t she? You’re not lovers – you’re comrades-in-arms.” He turned back to face them and leaned against the counter, mug cradled in his long-fingered hands. “I know what that’s like.” He tilted his head, squinted at Benny’s club. “Those spikes. What are they made of?”

“Something that works,” Benny said sharply.

Gold gleamed in Merlin’s eyes once more. “Something not of this earth? But also not quite of...home, either. You two have been very busy bees. So. You need my heart. For quite the spell, I imagine.”

“Quite the spell,” Meg echoed. Her mind raced. Jesse Turner had been capable of altering reality at a whim. If the legends were correct, however, Myrddin Wyllt had been little more than madman and prophet. If he was one of Azazel’s children, then he was like a jumped up Special Child, like Sam. His powers would include the ability to control demons, to exorcise demons with a thought (but he probably hadn’t tried that), voice commands, telekinesis, telepathy, and a killing touch. Maybe some pyrokinesis, because Azazel liked that trick. If any of Monmouth’s legends had truth to them, then Merlin would be able to shapeshift and bend the elements to his will, like melting a sword into a stone and then melting the sword out of it again. Dare she reach out, check for magical spells? While Merlin thought of himself as a demon, of Hell as home, he seemed more traditional witch than demon.

“You know,” Merlin said, “I could just give you my heart.”

Benny blinked at him. “What?”

“I don’t need a heart to live. No demon does.” Merlin flicked a glance at Meg. “Right?”

For a creature who thought himself a demon, he didn’t think like one. Meg lifted her chin. “What would you want in exchange?”

“Is the spell you’re doing designed to kill me?”

“No,” Benny said. “Killing you is just a step in the process. But this spell isn’t about you.”

“And yet you need my heart.” Merlin sipped his tea delicately, his pink lips pursed into a perfect cupid’s bow.

“A cambion heart,” Meg said, “not Merlin’s heart.”

“And yet you sought me out. When none of our kind has done so since – since the gates closed.”

Apparently he’d missed several more recent gate openings. Was he some kind of hermit?

“Like I said, we needed a cambion.” Meg wished she had Ruby’s knife. It wouldn’t take out a knight of hell, so it probably wouldn’t kill a cambion, but it would at least slow a cambion down.

Merlin’s brow furrowed. “What of Caliban, Belasius, Sagheer and Ichiro, or Amaya?”

“Caliban was harder to find, the others we’ve never heard of,” Meg said, but stored their names away for later.

Merlin narrowed his eyes at her. “Is this jealousy, then, demons thinking cambions are abominations?”

Meg arched an eyebrow in disbelief. “Honey, Hell is all about abominations. The more, the merrier. Come roast marshmallows over the Pit with the rest of us.”

“You just need a heart from a cambion – any cambion – and the only one you could find was me,” Merlin confirmed. “It’s, as you say, nothing personal.”

Benny nodded tightly. “That’s right.”

Merlin was silent, sipping his tea. Neither Meg nor Benny twitched a muscle.

“Am I the only cambion left?”

Benny cast Meg another look.

“No.” Meg swallowed hard. “But you’re a little less scary than the other one.”

Merlin lit up. “So there is another? I had not sensed – but then during all the upset with the weather and earthquakes – and then with the meteor shower – he must be terribly young. Or she?”

“He,” Meg said. “They call him Antichrist.”

“Oh.” Merlin’s expression turned wistful. “Then the end is very near.”

“Not as near as you’d think.” Meg eyed him warily. He was wistful about the Apocalypse? Did he want the world to end? “So really, what’s in this for you?”

“Nothing,” Merlin said. “I need nothing. At least, what I need neither of you can give me, and harming you will not bring me any closer to what I want.” He drained his mug the way an alcoholic drains a bottle of whiskey and then set it aside. He shrugged off his jacket, tugged his t-shirt over his head. He was pale, slender, with a dusting of dark hairs across his chest.

What happened next was unnatural and also violated the laws of physics and human anatomy, but Merlin was a cambion and could do whatever he wanted with reality. Meg nearly dropped her super-soaker when Merlin picked up what looked like an ordinary butter knife and cut a slice down along his sternum. Then he pushed a hand into his own chest and dug around with a series of wet, squelching sounds that would have made any number of monsters upchuck their most recent meal. A moment later, with a sickening wet ‘pop’, Merlin held his own pulsing, dripping heart aloft. He cradled it in both hands like it was an injured bird – how had he not keeled over and died? – and _tugged_.

The heart cracked down the middle, and he held a half in each hand. The two halves continued to pulse in time with each other. They looked wet and gleaming and meaty, not brittle enough to crack like that.

Benny made a choking sound.

Meg glanced at him. His lips were skinned back from his fangs, his pupils were dilated, and he was panting. Hungry. Thirsty.

Merlin blinked, tilted his head curiously. “Do you eat the flesh of cambion hearts?” He offered one half of the heart.

Benny shuddered and took a few deep breaths. Then his fangs retracted, and he said, “No. I don’t. But I think the spell calls for an entire heart.”

Merlin’s smile was beatific. “And a whole heart I will give you.” With a stage magician’s flourish, Merlin brought both halves together with another wet squelch, and Meg jumped. Merlin gazed at his hands, eyes flickering from blue to gold and back again. Was he going to have a seizure?

They could take both pieces of his heart and just go if he collapsed.

But no. He wasn’t going to collapse. He was, however, going to grow both halves of his heart into two new wholes, perfectly identical, beating in synchronization. Damn. Not even an angel could do that. Maybe going after the Antichrist would have been a better idea after all. Merlin shoved one heart back into his chest, and the wound healed. The other heart he wrapped in cheesecloth and tucked into a jar, which he held out to Meg. 

“Here,” he said. “For your spell.”

Meg and Benny looked at each other. Benny nodded at Meg. She looked at Merlin. His expression was utterly sincere.

Meg tucked her super-soaker into its holster, reached for the jar.

It hit the floor and shattered.

Merlin locked an arm around her throat, spun her into his grip so her pack full of holy oil was smashed against his bare, bloody chest.

“Of course losing my heart would kill me,” he said. “Which is why I don’t keep it where everyone else keeps it.” His breath against her ear was frighteningly cold.

Benny let loose with his super-soaker. Meg screamed and writhed when the holy water hit her. Merlin didn’t feel a thing. He leaned in, inhaled the steam rising off of Meg’s skin. “Fascinating. Smells like monotheism and confusion. I hadn’t realized anything could hurt you. But I’m not one of you, not really. What hurts you doesn’t hurt me.”

“Give her back,” Benny said, “and we won’t hurt you.”

Merlin threw his head back and laughed. He was giving up all pretense of being human. The timbre of his true voice – elemental, musical, water over rock – bled through his bland American accent. “You’re funny, little fanged thing. You, hurt _me?_ Never. Anything you do to hurt me will only hurt her more.”

“Hurt her, maybe,” Benny said, “but not kill her. I’ll kill you.”

Merlin pressed a blade to Meg’s throat.

“Knives won’t kill me,” she said. “I am not my body. I can take another body in an instant.” Could she take his?

Magic, thick and cloying and oozing the scent of sulfur under magnolias, filled Meg’s nostrils, throat, made her gag. Her body panicked.

“No, I don’t think you’re going anywhere.” Merlin chuckled, low and ruthless. “Not until I take you there. Now, fanged thing, drop your weapons.”

Benny darted a glance at Meg. She was useless. She was choking. She was suffocating.

“I said, drop your weapons.”

Benny obeyed, because he had no choice.

And then they weren’t in the house anymore. They were somewhere cold, dark, damp. Merlin murmured a syllable in a dead language. His golden eyes were the only light in the darkness until old-fashioned mining lamps hanging from rusting nails on support beams lit up, one after another, as if by an invisible lamp lighter.

They were down in the mines.

“I knew what you were as soon as I saw you,” Merlin crooned in Meg’s ear. “I could smell it on you. Not just a demon, but a demon who had been to the Great Beyond – and returned. When I saw your weapons, I knew. You’ve been to the other side. Where demons go when they die.”

Benny was frozen, unfettered but bound by the force of Merlin’s will, beneath one of the lamps.

“You can open the gate for me,” Merlin said.

Meg, too, was frozen by his willpower. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Her head was cloudy and spinning from the overwhelming stench of his power. Azazel and flowers. What a terrible combination. She couldn’t smoke out.

“The great beyond is where they send us when we die – and those we love, too, if our souls are bound.” Merlin stroked Meg’s throat with the dull side of the knife. “But I need some of your blood to complete the ritual.”

Meg choked out, “Purgatory? You want to open the gate to Purgatory?” How many ways were there to open that place, and why hadn’t someone gotten her out sooner?

“No – the Great Beyond is Avalon.” Merlin hauled Meg further into the mine, lamps flickering to life to illuminate the way. Benny was dragged along haplessly in Merlin’s magical wake. Their destination was the final depths of the mine, where workers had stopped wielding their picks decades ago.

Merlin’s grip on Meg’s throat eased up, but she couldn’t leave her meatsuit, not for love or money. “That’s not how to get to Avalon,” she said. “Pour some cream and ask a fairy.”

“Don’t you think I’ve tried? But their fairy queen, their Morgana Le Fay, she has banished me from all Seeleigh and Unseeleigh borders. So I found another way.” Merlin waved a hand, planted Benny against one wall. “All I need is your heart or, if you were a willing sacrifice, your blood, to open the portal.” He yanked Meg around to face him. “Sister, you should will your blood to me. You could live. We can both live – forever. And if you came with me beyond, I could make you queen of all, chief sorceress, give you power not even our father could dream of. Leave this fanged thing behind and embrace your heritage. Your birthright.” His golden gaze was earnest, pleading.

Holy ravioli, Batman. Being alive this long had made Merlin crazy. Meg peeked at Benny. He watched her, face blank, eyes full of fear.

Meg took a deep breath. “If I were your queen, would you be my king?”

“The King has been and always will be,” Merlin whispered, “once and future. But with both of us by his side, we will be master of all we see and all we create.”

King Arthur. He was talking about waking up King Arthur. He’d mentioned a portal to Avalon before, one in the mines - he’d claimed it was a legend his ancestors told. He had no ancestors. He was his own ancestor. And he’d said the other half of his soul was in Avalon.

Could Meg bluff the most powerful cambion since the Antichrist?

Could Meg bluff a crazy person who could read minds?

Merlin cast a hateful glare at Benny. “Your fanged friend is of no service to you. See, he has led you here on this faithless quest, led you to your death. Cast him aside, join with me, and have the riches of eternity.”

Merlin didn’t know, didn’t realize this was all Meg’s idea. Maybe he really couldn’t read minds. Or maybe he was so crazy that he only considered what fit his worldview. 

So she said, “Okay.”

Merlin blinked. “What?”

Benny’s expression echoed the same sentiment wordlessly.

Meg straightened up as best as she could. “You’re right. Benny’s pointless. I’ll do it. I’ll help you open the gate.”

Merlin’s eyes shone with avarice. “You’ll will your blood to me?”

“I’ll will my blood to you. For the spell.”

Merlin exhaled shakily, and he released her, stepped back. “Excellent. Come. Let us do this quickly.” He tugged her back in with a thought, used his knife to open the vein in her left wrist.

Should he need that much blood if she was willing?

Apparently he needed enough blood to make Benny start to twitch and fret. Benny’d had a blood pack earlier that evening. Wasn’t it enough?

No. It was never enough. That was why Benny and other vampires were bundles of emo nerves. They were constantly on the verge of committing murder.

Or maybe just vampires like Benny, who went without what they liked best.

Merlin summoned a silver dish from nowhere to catch what of Meg’s blood he needed. He stared, fixed, at each drop of blood that dripped from her wrist and into the bowl.

Benny started to struggle against his invisible bonds, mouth open in a fanged snarl. He glared at Meg with seething hatred.

“What will you do with the fanged one?” Meg asked.

Merlin glanced up. “Hm? Oh. Kill him, I suppose. Add him to my collection. Master Belasius was insistent that I keep thorough records of every creature I come across. I never bothered with the supernatural world when the natural world is so lively, ever-changing. So much to see and study and catalogue before the humans destroy it all.” He flicked a look at Benny. “Humans. Such weak, small-minded creatures. Same as the things they mutate into, I suppose.” He smiled at Meg. “But you and me, we’re different.”

 _No_ , Meg thought, _we’re not. We’re mutants of the humans, too. And you’re a mutant twice over, in both body and soul._

“Brother,” she said, “I never did greet you properly.”

Merlin flicked his wrist, and the silver bowl went and settled at the base of the back wall of the mine corridor. “Oh?”

Meg held out her arms. “A hug, brother. That is how family meets.”

Merlin straightened up. “An embrace of affection. Yes, sister. That is how family greets.” He flung himself into her arms. She reached up and hugged him back. Benny’s gaze darted from her bleeding wrist to Merlin’s back, where some of her blood smeared. His nostrils flared. Meg rubbed Merlin’s back soothingly, smearing her blood further. The fury in Benny’s eyes didn’t abate.

Meg stepped back, and she cradled Merlin’s face in her hands. “Now, brother, are you ready?”

He nodded. “I’m ready.”

Meg kneed him in the groin.

Merlin doubled over with a gasp of pain.

Being immortal didn’t mean one was immune to pain. Being a warrior, a soldier meant one could keep moving even when one felt pain. Being an immortal wizard who bent reality to his will meant Merlin never felt pain accidentally. He assumed he was immune to deliberate pain or that any attack would be magical because he was magical.

Meg shoved him at Benny.

Benny, free from Merlin’s will, leaped on him and tried to tear out his throat. He hung on for a few seconds, snarling and biting and guzzling down blood that smelled even more thickly of demon sulfur and those damnable flowers.

But Merlin was immortal. He recovered quickly.

“Traitor!” He flung a hand at Meg, and she hit the back wall. Stars danced in her eyes.

There was another rush of power, and then a cry of pain. It wasn’t Benny. It took Meg a moment to shake off the damage to her meatsuit. Demonic super-healing only worked so fast.

“What –?”

Merlin was flat on his back while Benny advanced. Blood stained the lower half of Benny’s face and shirt and lapels of his coat. His eyes glowed gold.

Merlin tried to sit up. He slammed back down to the ground, swatted by a giant, invisible hand. Benny looked startled, but then he lifted a hand to his jaw, wiped up some of the blood, licked it. Gold flared in his eyes again.

Dammit. Azazel’s blood. It allowed a non-demon to consume demon blood and gain power. And Merlin had a lot of power.

Meg stumbled to her feet. “Benny –”

He swatted her aside without looking at her. Damn, that hurt. No wonder Sam and Dean always made faces when she did it to them.

Benny advanced on Merlin. “I’m not a ‘fanged one’. I’m a person. My name’s Benny. And cutting your heart out? Was her idea. The one you call sister. But she’s not your sister, because you sure as hell don’t act like a brother.”

Merlin gazed up at Benny in terror. “What are you?”

“I’m Benny Lafitte, and I’m a vampire.” Benny fell upon him.

Meg was across the mine in a blink. “Benny, be careful. The heart. We need it. Don’t –”

But Merlin was shrieking and the sound of flesh tearing like that was one Meg hadn’t heard since Hell. All she could do was step back and wait.

Benny didn’t eat the entire body, but the face and throat were unrecognizable as human body parts when he was done.

Merlin hadn’t been lying. His chest had an empty, gaping socket where a heart would be. Benny’s eyes were still glowing golden like Merlin’s when he finally straightened up, scrubbed a hand over his face. He was covered in blood. His eyes and teeth were the only pale parts of him, gleaming in the flickering lamplight.

Meg swallowed hard. “Benny, we have to get out of here, find Merlin’s heart.”

Blue flared momentarily behind the gold. Benny grinned at her, fangs retracted. “I know you didn’t mean what you said, sister. Now, let’s go get that heart.”

“You’re covered in blood.”

Benny arched an eyebrow, and suddenly he was clean. The wound on Meg’s wrist was closed.

“Thanks,” she said.

Benny threw his head back, laughed. “Wow! Holy hell. Is this what demons feel like all the time? Because this is fantastic.”

“No,” Meg said. “That isn’t how we feel. Trust me. Now we need to go, get your weapons, get our car so no one suspects us – we don’t need the cops after us, and cops _will_ come after us – and we need to find that heart.”

Benny actually winked at her. “You’re on, sister.”

That was how Meg, Benny, their car, and all their gear ended up smack dab in the middle of Broceliande Forest. The naked wiccans ran screaming. Meg put out the bonfire before it could destroy the car.

Benny knelt, pressed a hand to the forest floor. A moment later, he was holding a wooden box. Inside, a cambion heart, fleshy and pink with thick, black demon-blood veins, still pumped. Benny summoned Meg’s knife from her jacket, unsheathed it, and drove it neatly through the heart.

It stopped beating.Benny fell to his knees, retching.

Meg knelt beside him, wrestled off his cap and coat so he wouldn’t mess them up, and stroked his hair.

So. Phase one complete.

Meg couldn’t teleport a car in her state, and she wasn’t about to try. So she sat beside Benny till he fell asleep. Until she had a signal by which to send Claire the good news, she would read.


	12. Chapter 12

**Title:** Empty Vessel  
**Author:** Clairestiel  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Pairings/Warnings:** None/None  
**Summary:** Claire Novak is still out there. This is her story. Coda to _Point of No Return._

“To hell with this.” Claire was curled up in a teeny tiny ball in the corner of her mattress furthest from the bedroom door. She had every blanket in the house and several towels piled on top of her.

Having a fever sucked.

Not as bad as having an angel in her body, but it was running a close second. Claire wanted to read. To listen to music. (No music. She’d given the money from Castiel to her mother for food and a new winter coat. She had built a crystal radio out of a razorblade, some wire, and a pin so she could continue to access music. These days her choices were fuzzy talk radio and old big band and swing tunes. Half of the time, it was better to work in silence. She could listen to political pundits argue about which party was responsible for the downfall of America and society, but she knew the truth – angels, demons, monsters were responsible for the downfall of the world – and their voices were tiresome.)

Claire wanted to do something besides lie there and hurt. Mom was gone. She’d been gone when Claire got home from school, only because Claire had lied and said no, she was feeling fine and no, she was okay, she didn’t need a ride home from school. She’d gone to great lengths to be sure she could walk home from school with little worry about the supernatural.

Right now her classmates and their poor hygiene habits posed more immediate danger. There were things she should be doing: making protection patches (banishing sigils and devil traps and anti-possession charms embroidered onto scraps of old jeans to pin inside jackets and coats, hats and scarves and gloves); finishing painting protection symbols onto the walls; mowing Mrs. Mosier’s lawn to earn money to install black lights so the protection symbols would show up on command.

So much to do.

But Claire could barely move, let alone think. She rolled onto her side and stared despondently at her bookcase. Was there anything simple to read? Maybe a book on tape. That way she could close her eyes and just listen. Hadn’t Mom said she picked up an audiobook from the library? Probably some sappy self-help book (she’d bought dozens of those in the year Dad was gone, Dad was Castiel). Maybe a Georgette Heyer novel. Ms. Melwani, Claire’s English teacher, said the guy who read those books had a super awesome voice. That would be nice. Peaceful. Dad used to read her stories until she fell asleep. Dad had a nice voice.

Castiel’s voice was deep, rough, raw, like he wasn’t quite sure how voices worked.

Claire stared at the bookshelf for a little longer, then inched toward it. Maybe a kid book. Big print. Lots of pictures. Happy ending. She eased herself another inch closer to the bookshelf.

There was a loud thump from the other room. 

Claire froze. Immediately she scrunched herself back in the corner, clawing through the pile of blankets to the quilt she’d made of protective charm denim patches. She clutched it close.

Then she called out, “Mom?”

What if it was thieves? Or worse? She was sick and weak and home alone. She hauled herself to the edge of the bed, quilt still clutched in one hand, and felt under the bed for the laundry spray bottle of holy water, the silver letter opener, and canister of salt all in her little army surplus messenger pouch. Her arms felt like limp noodles, and it took three tries to haul the pouch up, but then she scuttled back to the corner of the mattress.

There was another thump. She called out again. “Mom?”

Castiel appeared in the doorway. Claire screamed.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.

“Cas – you’re bleeding –”

Claire abandoned her blanket fort and crawled toward him, the strap of the army pouch still in one hand. His chest was bloody and gashed. Someone had carved something into his chest. Torture? His clothes were bloody and his button-down shirt was a disaster.

Castiel looked down at himself, blinked. “Oh. This? This was an angel banishing sigil. It banished me as well as the other angels since I wasn’t the one who triggered it. I was very surprised to find myself...here.”

Claire squinted at him, confused. “Why did they draw it on you?”

“Dean carved it into me. So it was hidden. We needed to free Adam.” Castiel’s gaze was distant.

“Like Adam and Eve?”

“Sam and Dean’s little brother. Resurrected by the angels to be their weapon.” Castiel refocused on Claire. “Are you unwell?”

She huffed out a laugh. “Oh, Castiel, you’re a master of understatement. In the vernacular of the modern American teenager, this is called ‘really frickin’ sick’.”

“Really frickin’ sick,” Castiel echoed, testing the words, storing them away for later. “Who did this to you?”

“Probably that creep in my math class who never washes his hands after he blows his nose.” Claire blinked muzzily. The sight of blood was a rude awakening. “Um. Do you need to fix yourself?”

“Oh. Of course. Human non-warriors find blood distressing.” There was a flare of blue energy, and then Castiel was clean and whole and properly clothed. “Do you need to be fixed?”

Claire huffed. “I’m not a stray cat.”

“Do stray cats need fixing?” Castiel cocked his head, puzzled. 

“I would appreciate it if you’d make this awful cold go away, please.” Claire sighed and flopped back. She could only engage in angel banter for so long. Educating the culturally inept was exhausting. It made for funny time travel movies but not much fun in real life.

Castiel reached out, placed a hand on her forehead. “You are very unwell. And I – I am losing grace.”

Claire pushed herself up onto her elbows. “What?”

“In aiding the Winchesters, I have been cut off from Heaven,” Castiel said. “I cannot heal you fully, but I can take the worst of it away.”

“Will it hurt you?”

“No. Healing never hurts me.” Castiel’s hand on her forehead grew warm, and suddenly the pounding in her head and the ache in her muscles dissipated.

Claire sighed happily. “Wow. That’s kind of amazing. You’re the best.”

Castiel gazed down at her in confusion. “Best at what?”

Claire snuggled closer to him. He smelled kind of like Dad, was warm like Dad. “Everything.” Being healed instantly was kind of exhausting. Claire felt her eyes slip closed. “Cas?”

“Yes?”

“I put some angel warding on the apartment,” Claire said. “Will you stay and read to me?”

“Read you what?”

Claire waved a hand in the vague direction of the bookshelf. “ _Good Night Moon_.”

“All right,” Castiel said. Moments later, his voice washed over her. She snuggled a little closer to him, laid her head on his lap, and fell asleep.

Hours later, she woke, and Castiel was gone. He’d left pages and pages of additional anti-angel wards drawn in her English notebook.

She didn’t hear from him again for several weeks, and when he called, it was from a hospital. Angels had tracked him to her apartment, and he’d fled, but partway through his grace failed him, and he landed on a shrimping boat in Delacroix. Now he was stranded, injured, and human. But he was glad she was feeling better, and he was all right. Sam and Dean would rescue him soon.

Benny stirred, rolled over, and spat. “That’s disgusting.”

“Should have warned you. Demon blood tastes pretty horrible. Not the same as human blood, even though we have human hosts.” Meg patted his hair absently. “Although I hear Sam Winchester likes demon blood just fine. I can only imagine what cambion blood tastes like.” She handed him a bottle of water so he could swirl and spit. 

This time he didn’t bother to turn away from her. He did it three times and still coughed and spluttered. Then he looked at her. “What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you don’t drown in your own puke like a freshman at his first frat party,” Meg said. 

Benny squinted up at the dark grey sky between the trees. “Where are we?”

“France. Where Merlin hid his heart.”

“How did we get here?” Benny blinked, dazed. 

“You teleported us here. Us and Trusty Rusty.” Meg nodded at the car. 

Benny twisted and gaped at it. “I did that? But I’m a vampire.”

“Yeah. I know, ‘But I’m a cheerleader.’“ The allusion was lost on Benny. Meg shook her head. “Never mind. Well, when you get hopped up on cambion blood, you can do magic, and then you hurl.” Meg patted his shoulder in mock sympathy. “Don’t drink demon blood. Just ask Dean. Or maybe Sam.”

Benny scrubbed a hand over his face. “What do we do now?”

“Depends.” Meg searched his gaze. He was pale, skin damp with fever-sweat. There was no trace of cambion gold in his eyes. “How do you feel?”

“Like I puked up everything I’ve ever eaten since I was five,” Benny said.

“Thought so. You take the cambion-buster packs and your weapons and go hide in Trusty Rusty. I’ll go get you some vampiric Red Bull, and then I’ll see about getting us out of here.”

Surprisingly, Benny let Meg help him to his feet and over to the car. She got him situated in the passenger seat, pea coat draped over him like a blanket, cap pulled down to cover his eyes to block out the light. Then she smeared sunblock on his exposed skin like an overbearing mom at the beach.

“Beware of naked, dancing wiccans,” Meg said before she shut the door.

Benny tugged his cap off of his face. “What?”

Meg smiled sunnily and departed from the scene. She’d need some time herself before she could teleport them and the car out of there. Demons could teleport objects as well as people; Meg had done it many times before, but never something so large and heavy and complicated.

When she returned, Benny was completely asleep. She left a little cooler of blood bags in the driver’s seat, then squirmed into the back seat. Demons didn’t need sleep, but she did need to give herself some time to recharge. If she had set a few demonic wards to keep the dancing wiccans away so the car would be left in peace, no one would know. Till one was tripped and screaming ensued. A little harmless levitation never hurt anyone.

Meg tugged off her jacket and wrapped it close around her, tipped her head back, and closed her eyes.

Benny said, “Why do you do it?”

Meg didn’t open her eyes, didn’t move. “Do what?” 

“Read. All that stuff. About Sam and Dean.”

“And Castiel and me and Crowley and Bobby and the other series regulars? You, too, in some spots.”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Narcissism, maybe. Look at my life. Important enough to write about. Interesting enough that other people speculate and wonder and dream about me.”

Benny huffed. “You’re not that shallow.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You stayed with me, didn’t you? The entire time I was sick.”

“Where else was I going to go?”

“Back to Claire with the heart,” Benny said. “That’s what this is about, right? The spell to fix Castiel. You don’t need me for anything else. You can take on a succubus and a plain old demon on your own.”

Meg kept her tone light, jocular. “Aw, Benny, you want to get rid of me that quickly?”

“No, I –”

“And what would you do without me, anyway? Brood some, fall in love with a vampire slayer, get defanged by romance and a pesky gypsy curse?”

Benny spluttered. “What? No! What gave you that crazy idea?”

“Joss Whedon. Now buck up, Benny. I told you: you’re my get out of jail free card. Dean will tell me anything I want to know about Cas after he sees you and you have a sappy reunion.”

There was a long silence. Then Benny said, “Right. I forgot about that part. I guess you’re stuck with me.”

“I guess I am.” Meg smiled. 

There was another long silence, and then Benny said, “Will you read to me?”

“What would you like me to read?”

Benny hummed thoughtfully. “Something funny. Happy.”

“You do realize all the books I have on my phone are _Supernatural_ and fanfiction.”

“Are none of them funny or happy?”

“Have you ever _talked_ to Sam and Dean?”

“I listened to that first book. Sam was poisoned when he was a baby. But then he went to college. He must’ve had fun in college. I know Dean had all kinds of fun while Sam was in college.”

“So Dean would have you think,” Meg said quietly.

“Then something...unreal. But something fun. Funny. Please.”

Meg fished her phone out of her pocket. “All right. This is called ‘Yellow Fever’.”


	13. Chapter 13

Part III

Chapter Thirteen

Twenty-four hours later, Meg and Benny were back Stateside and heading toward civilization. Meg put several wards on the inside of Trusty Rusty’s trunk to keep the heart and their other hunting supplies safe.

When she headed to the front of the car, she saw Benny in the driver’s seat.

“I’m driving,” she said, hands on her hips.

Benny winked and twirled the keyring around his index finger. “Driver picks the music.”

Meg narrowed her eyes at him. “Like you have any music.”

Benny waggled a shiny new smartphone at her. “I do now.”

“How did you get money for that?”

“A vampire has his ways. Now get in. We’re going to Omaha.” He reached across the front seat and popped open the passenger door.

Meg tucked herself into the front seat and pulled the door closed. “Fine,” she said. “Drive. And what’s in Omaha?”

“A succubus,” Benny said. “Let’s ride.” 

They stopped for gas and snacks halfway across Wyoming. Benny checked on his phone for any news of Merlin’s death – none so far – while he gassed up. Meg wandered the aisles of the convenience store, picking up rag mags and checking in with Claire.

After multiple rounds of phone tag, Claire had given in and emailed Meg her class schedule. 

“Hey, Harp-n-Halo, we’re halfway to Omaha,” Meg said when Claire picked up.

Claire sounded a little out of breath in her response. She was probably running across campus to her next class. She had half an hour between classes, but she liked to get across campus fast, then sit down and catch her breath while she ate. “Awesome. Do you need any back-up? Funds?”

“Benny has some way of getting funds he refuses to tell me about. I think we got this. Although, have you figured out which part of a succubus is her kiss? Or am I going to have to slice off her lips?”

“Still working on that,” Claire said.

The clerk behind the counter – a tall, lanky young man with a beard and a flannel fetish – raised his eyebrows at her.

“Dungeons and Dragons,” Meg mouthed, and the guy nodded in understanding, flashed her a thumbs up. Ah, but nerdiness covered all manner of sins.

“So.” Claire’s tone was knowing. “Benny.”

“What about him?”

“How’s that going?” 

Meg picked several different types of chips, some mini powdered donuts, and some chocolate donuts. Apparently vampires could also eat human food. Or maybe Benny just remembered his cooking too fondly. “He’s been torturing me with his music. ‘Driver picks the music’.” Her parody of his accent was deliberately terrible.

Claire laughed. “Right. So, are things...working out?”

“Oh, not you too,” Meg said.

“What?”

“Everyone in that tiny town thought we were dating.” Meg huffed. “I’m not in love with Benny. He’s not my type.”

“And what’s your type?”

“None of your business.” Then Meg remembered. “You never did tell me about your friend. Your new clairvoyant one?”

“The fewer who know about the new prophet, the better,” Claire said.

Meg narrowed her eyes shrewdly. “You wouldn’t even tell Moose and Squirrel about him?”

“After what they did to their last prophet?” Claire snorted. “I’ll call if she turns up anything.”

“She?”

“Gotta go.”

It wasn’t worth pressing the issue. “Fine. We’ll call if we need back-up. Get back to me on that succubus.” Meg hung up. She bared her teeth at the cashier in her most disturbing smile. “Also, throw down a full tank on pump four.” She peeled some bills off of the roll of cash in her jacket.

The cashier nodded. “What edition are you playing?”

“Third,” Meg said without missing a beat. She might have read more than her fair share of Charlie fanfiction as well. Charlie sounded like one hell of a ride. So much going on in her head.

“Rock on.” The cashier rung her up, handed over the change. Meg deposited the paper sack of snacks on the back seat, then climbed into the driver’s seat and pushed the seat all the way forward. 

“Hey!” Benny protested.

Meg grinned sunnily. “Driver picks the music.” She adjusted the mirrors, smirked at herself. “Tell me about this succubus.”

Benny settled himself grumpily against the passenger window, scowled when Meg hooked her phone up to the radio and turned on some Red Hot Chili Peppers.

“First of all,” Benny said, “a succubus doesn’t have the same omens as a siren. Screw you very much for that ‘Sex and Violence’.”

“You’re welcome. Sam have some good tips for your next hookup?”

Benny tossed an empty wrapper at her. She caught it, rolled down the window and threw it into the garbage can. Then she gunned the engine and pulled out of the gas station. 

“Shut up.”

“Or did you think maybe you and Dean weren’t so platonic after all?”

Benny actually punched her in the arm. “Anyway, sirens drug people by kissing them and make them do crazy things. Succubi steal energy from people during sex dreams.”

“Succubi. Good Latin.” Meg patted him on the shoulder condescendingly. “And you’ve found a succubus in Omaha?”

“Victims at a sleep clinic,” Benny said. “All going into comas and dying mysteriously.”

“Sure it’s not African sleeping sickness?” Meg guided the car back onto the interstate.

“I do know how to use Google,” Benny said dryly. “No fevers or nausea. Just there for a sleep study, and then coma, and then dead.”

“Sure it’s not some kind of hero homicide serial killer at the hospital?”

“Police don’t seem to think the deaths are suspicious at all. Weird, yes. Worth manpower for investigating? No.”

Meg nodded. Either the police were incompetent or the cause really was supernatural. Benny was her partner now. She’d have to trust him, or at least trust his research. “What’s our pretext?” Demons didn’t do the trust thing, just like Dean Winchester didn’t do parents.

Benny grinned. “You’ve been having trouble staying awake. We suspect sleep apnea.”

“Me? Why not you? It’s a succubus. Typically they go after male victims.” Meg cast him an incredulous look.

“All the victims so far have been female. It’s the twenty-first century. Don’t be so small-minded,” he said, tone deliberately nonchalant.

Meg rolled her eyes. “Yeah, you’re not really breaking my worldview here. You have collateral documentation?”

“Like what?”

“Like insurance cards, a referral, medical records for me.”

Benny pressed his lips into a thin line. “We can’t just...go to a doctor?”

“You’ve never watched an episode of _House_ or _ER_ or _Grey’s Anatomy_? Seriously?”

Benny raised his eyebrows. “I’m a vampire, not a teenage girl.”

“Those two aren’t mutually exclusive.” Meg sighed and nodded at the radio. “Use my phone. Call Claire. She said we could call her if we needed back-up. Put it on speaker. Scoot close.”

Benny eyed her phone warily, then unplugged it. Static filled the car, and he shut the radio off hurriedly. He slid closer to her. “What’s your passcode?”

Meg told him.

“0666? Your kind aren’t original.” Benny snorted. He poked hesitantly at the screen – all he could do with his phone was make calls and play music. Eventually he found Meg’s contact list and fired it up. Meg made a vague gesture, and he poked some more till Meg could hear the phone ringing on speaker.

“I told you,” Claire said, “I have to get to class. Not telling you about the new prophet.”

“Hello, Claire.”

She hissed an indrawn breath. Then, “Benny?”

“Meg’s driving, so she asked me to call.”

“Wow. Um.” Claire sounded like she was chewing. She swallowed. “Hi. Glad Meg is practicing safe driving habits. What can I do for you?”

“We have a plan to catch the succubus,” Benny said, “but we need some help.”

“Physical back-up, technical back-up, or something else?” All the awe was gone from Claire’s voice. She was business-like in an instant.

“I thought you said you weren’t a hunter,” Meg said, “and here you sound like the newest Bobby Singer.”

“That would be Garth, if he’s still doing that whole business now that he’s wolfed out. I’m not a hunter. But I do have connections. So, you have ten minutes to tell me what you want, and then I need to get to class.”

Meg explained what they needed.

“All right. I know a guy who owes me after the massive batch of patches I sent him. I’ll have it in your inbox ASAP. Gotta go.” Claire hung up.

“Patches?” Benny asked.

“Best not to inquire how teenage minds work these days,” Meg said.

Benny plugged the phone back into the radio. “What do you want to listen to now?”

“I’m nicer than Dean,” Meg said. “I compromise. Put on some Hugh Laurie. I feel like a little ‘St. James Infirmary’.”

The motel Meg picked in downtown Omaha was perfect for their needs, if not their comfort. It was cheap, the manager downstairs asked few questions beyond their names – and he probably didn’t believe any name anyone gave him – and he accepted a lot of cash up front.

Meg and Benny were settled into their room, laying out protective wardings and deciding what to do next.

“I want pizza,” Meg said. “Or steak. I never stop hearing about Omaha steak.”

Benny cast her a sidelong glance. “You don’t need food.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t sometimes want it.” She shrugged, then added, “You eat food.”

“Money’s getting tight,” Benny said.

It was her turn to look at him sidelong. “You never did tell me how you get money.”

“I work for it,” Benny said. “There’s a lot of call for a man who can work without stopping to eat or drink.”

“For you, eating and drinking are kind of the same, aren’t they?”

“Well, I don’t need to stop for sustenance as often as humans.”

“You were doing last minute harvesting in Kansas or something?”

“Or something,” Benny said. “How have you been getting money?”

“I’ve been around for millennia, kid.”

“That is neither an excuse nor an explanation.”

“When a girl’s been around that long, she’s got ways.” Meg continued putting up anti-angel warding. Unfortunately, anti-demon traps were not an option, and neither were anti-vampire traps. “You’re not very creative, are you? I can get money any way I want. Possess a bank manager to open a vault. Steal money by picking pockets. I get money to get by.”

“And you just steal from whoever?”

“I tend to roll guys coming out of strip joints, especially if they’ve gotten too handsy with the girls,” Meg said.

“Really?”

“Please. Like I’m that sentimental.” No, she liked to think on a global scale. Having been around for centuries taught a girl not to think so ethnocentrically. She liked to steal mounds of cash and diamonds from warlords on various continents. She’d rub it in their faces when she saw them in Hell, because that was certainly where they were going. Besides, most of them made it to where they were by dealing with Crowley, and she was all about customer dissatisfaction in that department. “What matters is that I have money enough for both of us - for now. And right now, I am very curious about what Claire does, that she can get this kind of quality work.”

The motel they’d picked was what fans online tended to refer to as a Winchester Special – garish decor several decades out of date and in faded disrepair, suspicious stains on the cloth surfaces, dust on the solid surfaces, and mold in shadowy corners. They’d sprung for a single queen because that was less suspicious than two double beds, and also neither of them actually needed to sleep. Meg had the paperwork sent by Claire’s contact spread across the hideous kitten-patterned comforter (the walls were painted pale pink and had an accent border of kittens playing with balls of yarn).

The paperwork included driver’s licenses, insurance cards for both medical and auto, a manila folder with Meg’s falsified medical history, and even social security cards. The entire set of documentation was so well-done that everything looked used. The ID’s weren’t shiny and gleaming, the social security cards were worn around the edges from being tucked into wallets, and the medical history was a little disarrayed and dog-eared, and one page even had a stain from a coffee mug on it.

“With people this talented out there, no wonder the government is terrified of terrorists.” Meg scanned the information, committing it to memory (which she could do on a single pass, something Benny didn’t need to know, or else he’d give her so much crap for rereading all her favorite stories). They were Benjamin and Margaret Lafferty (neither Lafitte nor Masters but something both of them could answer to in a pinch). They had been married for seven years. Benny was a sous-chef at the Cajun restaurant in Old Market. Meg worked for a non-profit organization helping abused and neglected children. Meg had started having trouble sleeping about three years into their marriage, which resulted in some marital strife, but that was resolved through counseling. She’d tried various medications to help her sleep, which resulted in her sleeping through the night but still being exhausted, so exhausted she fell asleep at the wheel one day and almost died (thankfully no one else was hurt). They’d consulted several doctors, and they had been referred to the Sleep Center at the University Hospital.

Meg called Claire.

“Did the papers come through all right?” was Claire’s greeting.

“Hello to you too, Cloud Nine. Yeah, we got them all. I’m confused, though – why do Benny and I have to be married?”

Benny, who had been exiled to the chair and table in the corner to try to figure out some kind of anti-succubus weapon, lifted his head sharply. “What?”

“That’s what this is about? It’s not a big deal. It’s hunting. Pretext. You _are_ a hunter now, aren’t you?” Claire sounded distracted. She was done with both class and work for the day. She probably still had homework, though.

Meg wasn’t a hunter. Benny wasn’t a hunter, not in the sanctimonious, narcissistic sense Dean Winchester meant. They were both predators, though. “I didn’t sign up for this.”

“Meg, you’re a demon. You sign up for eating babies in muffins.”

“I’ve never eaten a baby in a muffin,” Meg said automatically. It was true. The culture she’d been in hadn’t invented muffins at the time.

“It’s a good cover. It works. If Benny needs to stay with you overnight, it’s less creepy if he’s your husband than if he’s your brother. People in the general population are not usually understanding of Becky Rosen’s worldview.” Claire’s voice went muffled for a second. She swore. Then she returned at full volume. “So suck it up.”

“I can pretend to be a lot of things. Married isn’t one of them,” Meg said.

“Then learn. Fast.”

Meg frowned. “You know, _I’m_ the one doing _you_ a favor.”

“Raise you up, cast you down, yadda yadda,” Claire said airily. “Gotta go. Have fun with Benny.” And she hung up.

Meg stared at her phone, betrayed. “I almost think you’re enjoying this.”

Benny stood up, crossed the room. “Let me see those papers.”

Meg spread her hands in a wide gesture. “Be my guest, Hubster.” She stood up, grabbed her jacket. “I’m going to get some steak.”

“Be back in an hour,” Benny called after her. “And bring some pizza. No mushrooms.”

Meg returned as promised. Benny was lounging on the bed, watching staticky television. A perky blonde, corn-fed woman was regaling him about the upcoming weather forecast. Fog warning. Omaha in winter was just a dandy place to be.

Meg dumped the box of pizza on the table. She’d sprung for some beers. If they were going to pretend to love each other, she ought to at least play nice. Demons weren’t incapable of playing nice. “So. Are you ready to do this thing?”

“Are you?”

Meg lifted her chin. “Hi. I’m Meg. I’m a –”

Benny threw a pillow at her face.


	14. Chapter 14

Dr. Parwal was a portly, middle-aged woman with glossy dark skin and jet-black hair that fell to her waist in a neat braid, a single streak of white at her temple. She sat across from Benny and Meg behind a heavy wooden desk, hands folded atop a stack of files, business-like.

“Mrs. Lafferty, you fell asleep at the wheel?”

Meg nodded. “I get tired sometimes, and I feel myself getting sleepy. My head starts to nod, and my vision gets all fuzzy, and then it goes gray, and then dark, and then I just...can’t move. It’s happened at home. It’s never happened on the road. I can always stave it off, but...” She bit her lip, glanced at Benny.

He smiled sympathetically at her, patted her hand, and it took a whole lot of willpower not to pull away. Belatedly, she smiled back.

He squeezed her hand tightly. To the doctor, it was compassion. To Meg, it was a warning: you’re overacting.

Dr. Parwal looked at Benny. “Have you noticed her drowsiness?”

Benny nodded. “She’s always been a napper – her down time is around three in the afternoon. But lately I’ve noticed she gets drowsy over lunch and dinner. She drifts off in the middle of conversations. It’s almost like she’s – what do they call it? When you fall asleep randomly.”

“Narcoleptic?” Dr. Parwal raised her eyebrows, switched her gaze back to Meg.

She’d studied the medical notes very carefully. “No, I’m not narcoleptic. I’m not all the way asleep. I’m in that place in between. I’m tired, and I can’t move or speak, but I can hear everything going on around me. Time goes fuzzy.”

Dr. Parwal scribbled some notes on her notepad, making thoughtful humming noises. “Does this happen at other times?”

Meg nodded, affixing an earnest expression on her face. “When I wake up. If I don’t get up right when I first come awake, if I fall back to sleep, then I get trapped in that in-between place when I try to wake up again. I feel nauseous, have an awful headache.”

“It sounds like you could be borderline narcoleptic. We will do a sleep study first,” Dr. Parwal said. “You will sleep in the clinic with sensors attached. We’ll be measuring your brainwaves, breathing, and heart activity.”

Meg bit her lip again, turned big, pleading eyes on Benny, channeling her best Sam Winchester. “I – I have trouble falling asleep alone. Unless I have meds–”

“No, no medications,” Dr. Parwal said. “If the testing room isn’t too crowded, perhaps your husband can stay with you.”

“I don’t even have to sleep in the same bed,” Benny said. He chuckled. “Doubt we’d both fit. But if I could sit beside her, maybe.”

Dr. Parwal nodded. “We’ll do what we can. But no hanky-panky.” She winked at Benny, and then went to smile at Meg, and confusion crossed her face.

Benny squeezed her hand warningly.

Meg ducked her head, attempted a coquettish expression. “Of course. No hanky-panky.”

Dr. Parwal scribbled something illegible on a form, ticked some boxes, and slid it across the desk. “Give it a couple of days so all your regular sleep meds clear your system, and report two hours before your regular bedtime.”

Meg and Benny nodded. 

“Thank you so much,” Benny said.

It was best if he did most of the talking. Everyone they ran into loved his smooth southern accent.

“Thanks again,” Meg added, and allowed Benny to steer her out of the doctor’s office.

Once they were in the hallway and headed for the parking lot, Benny stepped away from her, gave her some personal space. 

“You know,” he said, “people might believe we’re actually a couple if you didn’t look like I’m about to rape you every time I touch you.”

“I still don’t see why we have to be married,” Meg said.

“Legalities,” Benny said. “No civil partnerships in Nebraska. I don’t get to stay overnight if I’m not immediate family, and again, it’s creepy if you can’t fall asleep without your brother in the same room.”

“Fine,” Meg huffed. “Let’s go shopping.”

“For?”

“You want the demon to make us as soon as we walk into the building? No? Just checking. Shopping it is.”

The northwestern edges of the city were a careful intermingling of cramped apartments and small businesses – a smoke shop, a second-hand gift shop, a comic book shop.

And a new age gift shop.

“This is the fifth one we’ve been to,” Benny protested.

Meg extended a hand. “Come on, hubster. Let’s go see if this is the real thing.”

Between the flickering neon OPEN sign and the heavy velvet drapes, the placed looked about as unreal as a real witchcraft shop could be. Benny didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he wound an arm around her waist and tugged her against his side.

The door opened before Benny could hold it for her. A young woman in a black velvet dress with a corset-like bodice and flowing sleeves beckoned them in. Her expression was probably supposed to be solemn, but mostly she looked bored.

“Enter, and find wisdom.” Her gesture was grandiose.

“Thanks,” Benny said, amused. He glanced down at Meg, who was unamused by his condescension. “Ready to get smart, sweetheart?”

The sigil painted in the window meant the place was the real thing. Meg knew what to buy; Benny didn’t. But he was male, bigger, taller, and people often conflated physical authority with other types of authority.

They browsed the shelves – candles, crystals, books, gaudy journals with skulls and raven’s claws for locks and clasps. Benny scanned the shelves, idly curious. Meg was trying to figure out where they kept the good stuff.

They made a circuit of the outer shelves, then scanned the inner aisles. Crystal balls, collections of pendants, chains, bracelets, and occult books of dubious authorship were all for sale. 

“See anything you like? I got paid today,” Benny said.

Meg browsed the astounding collection of tarot cards. They made tarot cards out of any theme these days. Who knew animated Japanese pornography warranted their own tarot decks. And angel oracle cards? Were not tarot decks. 

The goods were probably locked in the cabinets behind the glass display counter where a girl who was a reject from _The Craft_ was shuffling a deck of tarot cards and laying out what looked like a game of solitaire.

Meg nudged Benny, and he guided her over to the counter. They leaned on the counter together. Meg reached up, stroked the hair at the nape of his neck. His hair, though short and spiky-looking, was actually very soft. For all that Meg preferred to possess females, she’d possessed a pleasing male or two in her life. Sam Winchester had deceptively soft hair.

The sales clerk glanced up. “How can I help you folks? Looking for some love mojo?” She nodded at some red tapers in eye-wateringly ornate silver candlesticks.

“Actually,” Benny said, “we’re looking for some African dream root.”

  


The girl raised her eyebrows.

Meg giggled, ducked her head. “We want to share a dream.”

“African dream root? That’s pretty rare. Pretty expensive, too,” the girl said.

“Pretty sure my man has enough cash to cover it. Right, Cupcake?” Meg patted Benny’s bicep and fluttered her eyelashes at him.

Benny nodded. “Like I said, I just got paid. We can get whatever you want.”

“African dream root’s pretty serious stuff,” the sales clerk said, one eyebrow arched in skepticism. “It’s not going to be like a weekend bowl of ganja.”

“We know, don’t we, babe?” Meg reached into her pocket and drew out the list of ingredients she needed for the hex bags that would prevent the demon from recognizing her as a demon until it was too late – until it was in her dreams. “Also, I was wondering if I could pick up these, too.”

The sales clerk scooped up the handwritten list, black fingernails stark against the white paper. Her eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. “This is –” Her eyes narrowed. “You’re hunters, aren’t you?”

“I’m sorry, what?” Meg asked.

“Sure,” Benny said. “Deer, elk –”

“Ghosts, demons?” The sales clerk’s expression turned amused. “And you’re pretty new at it, huh?”

Meg and Benny exchanged looks. The girl, for all her poor fashion choices, was pretty smart, and more accurate than even she knew.

“How’d you guess?” Meg stepped out from under Benny’s arm, tucked her hands into her jacket pockets. She curled her fingers around the hilt of her pocket knife just in case.

“Your wardrobe,” the sales clerk said dryly, “and also the awful pretexting. You’d be better off pretending to be business partners or something. Watching siblings like you try to be a couple? Awkward and also a little creepy.”

Meg raised her eyebrows, flicked a glance at Benny. She resisted the urge to cry gleefully, _See? Not meant to be a couple._

“Better safe than sorry,” Benny said. “But you’ll help us?”

The sales clerk grinned. “And even give you a discount. I know your kind are poor – or your checks will bounce. Might as well take the cash I can get. What are you after?”

“Low-level demon,” Meg said. 

The salesclerk scanned the list, fumbling for the keyring hanging from her gaudy series of necklaces. “Pretty strong protection you’re looking at here. These will make you practically invisible to the demon. Where’d you pick up this recipe?”

“From a squirrely little guy who thinks he’s hunter dispatch central,” Meg said. 

“Ah. Garth. He’s been quiet for a while. Glad to hear he’s back in the business.” The sales clerk’s smile was less sarcastic, more relaxed, and she unlocked the back cabinet. She lifted the metal door, and built into the cheap metal cabinet was a series of wooden drawers, dark lacquer gleaming. She rifled through them with expert hands even though none of the drawers were labeled in English. That Latin used on the faded labels wouldn’t be particularly helpful either unless someone was an old hat at witchcraft. “How much do you need?”

“Enough for me and my partner,” Meg said.

“And the dream root?” The sales clerk paused.

“Demon likes to get into people’s dreams,” Meg said. 

“Oh. Be careful. Dreams are tricky things.” The sales clerk bagged up the different ingredients separately, hands deft. She slid them across the counter, then rang them up. She gave them a generous discount. Meg peeled several more large bills off of the roll she kept in her jacket and slid them across the counter in return.

The other girl, who’d lingered on the edges of the conversation, bagged the ingredients and handed them to Benny. He thanked her softly.

“For the record, you were over-selling it,” said the sales clerk. “The whole affection thing. Too clingy. I get it – you’re siblings, and people think it’s weird, that you’re adults and working together and sometimes sleeping in the car together. But if you want to make it as a couple, you have to work with your own personal space boundaries. I could tell the second you walked in here that you’ve never been the type of girl to cling to a guy like you did with him.”

“Thanks,” Meg said flatly.

“Told you that you were overacting,” Benny said.

Meg stomped on his foot.

He winced but made no sound.

“Pretexting as a couple requires you to act natural around each other,” the sales clerk continued. She beckoned for them to stand closer together. “You need to act like you normally act, but put a tiny bit of a romantic spin on it.”

Meg and Benny stepped closer to each other hesitantly.

The sales clerk gestured again. “Closer. Closer – too close. I could see it in your eyes, girlie. You have some serious personal space issues.”

Benny rolled his eyes but shoved at her shoulder.

“There,” said the sales clerk. “Now, hold hands.”

Meg and Benny exchanged looks, decided to humor her. 

The sales clerk hummed thoughtfully. “Nope. Too awkward. You’re not the type for that either. Your parents didn’t hug you a lot, did they?”

“Daddy wasn’t the hugging type,” Meg said flatly.

“Right.” The sales clerk eyed Meg knowingly. “How do you two show affection?”

“We don’t,” Benny said.

“I’m starting to get that.”

Meg and Benny exchanged looks. Everyone’s relationship was different. They didn’t have to abide by some sort of rom-com model to prove they were a couple. All they had to do was say it and stick to it. Time to go.

“There!” the sales clerk said. “You do that thing where you talk with your eyes. It looks a little soldier intense right now, but you can work with that.”

“Work with it how?” Benny asked.

“Smile a little, when you lock gazes,” the sales clerk said. “That way you look like you’re in love instead of planning where to bury the body.”

“Burying bodies is part of the job description,” Meg pointed out.

The sales clerk laughed. “I know. But seriously, you two, lighten up. Now get out there and salt and burn.”

“Thanks,” Benny said. He tipped his cap at the two girls and then did an about-face, headed for the door. Meg followed him.

The crisp winter night was like a slap in the face.

“Overacting,” Benny sang.

Meg climbed into the driver’s seat and gunned the engine. “Shut up. Let’s get back to the motel.”


	15. Chapter 15

“I got a line on a succubus kiss,” Claire said.

“Hello there, Cloud Spawn.” Meg had the phone tucked between her ear and her shoulder while she stitched spell sigils onto sackcloth. Benny was packing their gear into overnight duffels and watching some old _House_ rerun. Meg had insisted it would help him understand how modern medicine worked beyond bribing hospital employees to give him blood bags.

Meg played him an old _This American Life_ podcast to make him feel better about stealing the blood bags – according to the radio hosts, most blood banks were over full and after some blood drives they ended up pouring donated blood down the drain. With Benny buying blood packs for exorbitant amounts of money, he was helping hospitals stay funded and helping keep the demand high so sanctimonious church groups could feel better about themselves once or twice a year.

“The tongue,” Claire said. “It’s pretty obvious, once you think about it. Make sure it has a mark on it, though.”

“What kind of mark?”

“A mouth,” Claire said.

“A mouth on a tongue inside a mouth. Very Russian doll. Any particular kind of mouth? Like the Chinese character or the Rolling Stones logo or –”

“Lore doesn’t say,” Claire said. “It should be recognizably a mouth, though.”

“If it’s Forty Licks, that’ll be even more Russian doll-like. Anything else we need to know?”

“Use a silver knife. Keep it in a jar of rose water.”

“Okay. Good luck on midterms. We’ll check back in when the deed is done.” 

“Thanks, Willow. Say hi to Xander for me.” 

“I’ve been calling him Spike.”

“And referring to Dean as Buffy?”

Meg laughed. “You know me too well.”

“All right. Thanks, Meg.” There was a wistful cast to Claire’s voice.

Meg ignored it. “Me, cause, dedication, et cetera.” She disconnected and let the phone thump to the mattress, then resumed sewing.

Benny glanced toward her. Belatedly he remembered to smile softly and affectionately. “What did Claire have to say?”

“Once we figure out who the demon’s host is, we cut out its tongue,” Meg said. “Do you know how to make rose water?”

“Why would I know that?”

“I dunno. What did you boys do to romance girls back in the day, besides take them to sock hops at the high school gym?”

Benny’s laugh was low, smoky, like whiskey curling down the back of Meg’s throat after a long, stressful day at the office. “I’m from Louisiana, honey. Never heard about a Louisiana Saturday night?”

“Moonshine and kissing your sister?”

Benny threw a pair of rolled up socks at her.

“Spousal abuse,” Meg protested, catching them with one hand.

“Whatever. Sister. How are those hex bags coming?”

“I’m turning them into necklaces. Matching love pouches. It’ll be cute,” Meg said.

“You heard what the witch girl said. We can’t do cute because you make it too awkward. Not to mention those symbols don’t look overly romantic.”

“Religious symbols, then,” Meg said. “They’ll let me keep it if it’s religious and non-metallic.”

“You. Have religion.” Benny snorted. “Please.”

“Honey, I’m a demon. Hell. Heaven. I _am_ religion.”

“You call me ‘honey’ a lot,” Benny said. “You ever call Castiel ‘honey?’”

“No,” Meg said shortly. “Hey, tear yourself away from the idiot box and fire up the tablet. Figure out how to make rosewater.”

Benny nodded, and he looked relieved to be off laundry folding duty. He tapped away at the screen, and Meg kept sewing. She couldn’t remember the last time she embroidered something other than human skin for something other than torture.

Dr. Banh was golden-skinned, of indeterminate age, and had a pleasant smile. He met them at the discreet back door of the building touted as the Cardiac Center and Sleep Unit. He wore green scrubs and a name tag and a neat pair of wire-rimmed glasses.

“This way, please, Mr. and Mrs. Lafferty.”

For a second, Meg was confused, but then Benny’s hand at the small of her back reminded her: till the job was done, she was Mrs. Lafferty.

The building smelled of cleaning chemicals, and one in every three fluorescent lights flickered weakly overhead. The emptiness of the place was starkly emphasized by the loud echo of their footsteps across the linoleum floor. They passed an open door that opened into a room filled with computer monitors where two young black women in blue scrubs lounged, looking exhausted and clinging to coffee mugs.

Dr. Banh led them into one of the rooms that was being displayed on one of the monitors. There were two cots side by side, one for Benny, one for Meg. The one for Meg was surrounded by monitors and machines. Dr. Banh’s voice was gentle, soothing as he discussed how each machine worked, what it would measure, and what he’d be looking for on the tests. He had Benny answer a few questions about Meg’s sleeping habits. Benny lied admirably, seeing as how they had only slept at the same time once, and it was in their car. Then one of the nurses from the monitoring room came in to take Meg’s vitals and leave a hospital gown for her to change into.

She made idle chatter with Benny about how long they’d been married, what he did for a living. When she noticed his accent, they started reminiscing about all the great Cajun food they missed. Meg changed into the gown, clutching it closed, and squirmed onto the bed. 

“Ready for some electrodes,” she said. 

The nurse, Danielle, turned back to her and started pasting electrodes onto her forehead and chest. “Anything I can do to help you get comfortable?” Danielle asked. “We can unhook the wires from the electrodes if necessary, so do your thing and then I’ll hook you up to the machines, and it’s lights out.”

“Can we get some mugs?” Benny asked. “For some non-caffeinated tea. Helps her sleep. Probably psychological more than anything.”

Danielle nodded. “Sure thing. Be back with some mugs and hot water in a jiffy.” She beamed at Benny and sailed out of the room.

“Aw, Spike, she’s sweet on you. Maybe she can be your next Buffy.”

He didn’t rise to the bait. “Two is better than one,” Benny said. “You drink my hair, I’ll drink yours.”

“How do you know we won’t end up stranded in each other’s dreams?” Meg asked.

Benny waggled his phone at her. “I read ‘Dream a Little Dream of Me.’”

“We have no guarantee that the demon will even try for me tonight,” Meg said. “Maybe I should go solo in my own head for now. Lull it into a false sense of security.”

“It will probably try for you tonight,” Benny said. “I checked the monitor room as we went past. No one else is here besides you for testing. The last patient died last night. If it’s coming, it’s for you. And if not –”

“Well, succubi don’t need to feed every night,” Meg said.

“Fine,” Benny said. “We don’t drink each other’s hair. Do you remember your dreams in the morning?”

Meg arched an eyebrow at him.

“Oh. Right. Well, did you before?”

She kept her eyebrow arched.

“Okay. Fine. Just – do you dream?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then what?”

“Is there a verb equivalent for nightmare?”

Before Benny could respond, Danielle returned with two hospital mugs steaming with hot water. Benny had prepped two tea balls of African dream root, and he dropped one into each mug. He thanked Danielle and flashed her a smile, which she returned before she left and closed the door behind her. Then he carried the mugs over to the kitchen sink to steep.

“Were they recording sound, do you know?” Meg asked.

“It’s not like either of us snore,” Benny said. He shucked off his hat, jacket, socks, and shoes. After a hesitant glance at the camera in the corner, he skimmed down to his boxers and under shirt and climbed into the other bed. He took his tablet with him.

Meg kept her phone on hand. 

“Care to recommend anything?” Benny asked once he’d fluffed his pillows to his liking.

“What are you in the mood for?” Meg fired up her book app and went hunting for one of her favorite stories about Dean getting turned into a girl, because that was just karma. And also kinda filthy fun. Hopefully filthy would make the succubus come running. 

Benny raised his eyebrows, expression playful. The cameras would hopefully pick it up as flirtatious. “Something about you.”

Meg hummed thoughtfully. “You know what’ll make your little heart go all fluttery? ‘Born Under a Bad Sign.’”

Benny skimmed the list of books. “That’s pretty early on.”

“I’ve known Sam and Dean for a long time.”

Benny narrowed his eyes. “Did you do something horrible to Dean?”

“Not nearly as horrible as what I did to Sam,” Meg said.

“I don’t actually hate Sam, you know.”

“I hear you, Spike. You’re just jealous of Captain Cardboard is all.”

Benny looked confused at the allusion but shrugged. “I’ll give it a shot. See what I think.”

“Remember,” Meg said, “I’m a demon. On the other hand, if you want to feel inspired, you can check out ‘Bloodlust.’ It might piss you off, though.”

“What’s it about?”

“Vampires,” Meg said. “Vegetarian vampires, as it were.”

“Why will it piss me off?”

“Just wait and see which brother is more trusting of vegetarian vampires.”

“Sam?”

“And then read some ‘Girl Next Door.’”

Benny raised his eyebrows. “Sounds like a porno.”

“Not so much.” Meg laughed. “Now lean over and kiss me. We’ll read some, and then I’ll sleep.”

“Do you actually sleep?”

“Don’t need to. But I can.”

“Okay,” Benny said. “But first – some tea.”

Meg had already performed her evening ablutions – vampires and demons also didn’t need to brush their teeth or wash their faces, but she was pretending to be human – so it was easy for Benny to discreetly pluck a strand of hair off her brush and pop it into his mug of tea.

The stuff was foul, but Meg had tasted worse. She downed it like it was vodka and set the mug aside, thumbed her phone awake to keep on reading. 

She reached out, and Benny twined his fingers with hers. She glanced at him, and he met her gaze for just a moment. It was all for the cameras.

Meg fell asleep.

She was dreaming. Definitely dreaming. Because she was pretty sure she’d never be caught dead wearing a house dress, pearls, and heels and standing in a large, spacious kitchen chopping carrots while Claire, ten years old and tow-headed, sat at the table doing her homework. The radio was playing some of the old doo wop Benny sometimes insisted on when it was his turn to drive. The doo wop transitioned over to some smooth, old-school Elvis crooning about where fools rush in.

Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

The front door opened. “Hey, I’m home.”

It sounded like Castiel, only his voice was sweeter, lighter, without its usual gravel. There were footsteps across a hardwood floor, and then Castiel stood in the doorway. He wasn’t wearing his tan overcoat, and his tie was neat for once.

He wasn’t Castiel. He was Jimmy.

Claire was out of her seat in an instant, flinging her arms around his waist. “Daddy!”

He hugged her, patted her hair. “Hey, baby. How was school today?”

“It was great.” Claire pulled back, beamed up at him. “I got three gold stars.”

“That’s wonderful. I’m so proud of you.” Jimmy’s blue eyes were wide, earnest. “Hey, why don’t you set the table for Mommy, then go upstairs and finish your homework? And hey, since you got three gold stars, you can turn your music all the way up.”

“Really? Thanks, Daddy!” Claire scooped her homework into her backpack with a wince-worthy crunch of worksheets, and then she set the table at lightning speed.

Meg continued chopping vegetables and scraping them off the cutting board and into a wok. Jimmy came to stand behind her, hands resting gently on her hips.

“How was your day?” he asked.

“Fine. And yours?”

“We closed that ad deal with Sucracorp,” he said. “I’m looking at a pretty big promotion. No official word yet, but I’m pretty sure.”

Meg couldn’t help but smile. “That’s wonderful. I’m really proud of you.” She turned slightly, and Jimmy shuffled closer, pressed a quick kiss to the corner of her mouth.

“How long till dinner?”

“Once all the vegetables are in, I’ll leave them to simmer while the rice cooks so...half an hour?”

Music exploded from overhead. One Direction. What was the world coming to? At least it wasn’t Bieber.

“That’s pretty loud,” Meg said.

“Let her have her fun.” Jimmy shrugged off his suit jacket, loosened his tie, and rolled up his sleeves. Then he scooped up a knife and a bell pepper and moved to stand beside her, started chopping. “How much homework does she have left?”

“She’ll probably have a little bit left after dinner.”

“How’s she doing on it?”

“She’s got this down.”

Jimmy smiled at her sideways, the curve of his lips secretive. “Then once these vegetables are in, we have twenty minutes.”

“Twenty minutes for?”

Jimmy leaned over and nipped the spot just behind her ear. She almost dropped her knife. Then she resumed chopping, quicker but a little more unevenly. When she glanced at Jimmy again, his grin was decidedly wicked.

As soon as all the vegetables were simmering in the wok and the rice cooker was on, Jimmy crowded her up against the kitchen counter, hands splayed across her ribs and back.

He was still an A student of the pizza man, whoever that was.

Meg moaned happily into the kiss, worked a hand between them to unknot his tie.

Benny said, “Christo.”

Jimmy jerked back with a hiss. His eyes flickered black.

Meg reared back, shocked.

Benny stood in the kitchen doorway, Ruby’s knife – or a dream replica of it – in one hand.

“Hunter,” the demon hissed, and the voice that came out of its mouth was neither Jimmy’s nor Castiel’s.

Benny lunged, sliced at the demon.

It danced back out of range, and then its form wavered, shifting from Jimmy to a tall, slender woman with a cascade of golden hair, red lips, and green eyes. If Dean Winchester had been a woman, he might’ve looked this good.

“I wondered why I didn’t sense you at first,” she said. “But those little hex bags don’t work in my world.”

“Not your world,” Meg said. “Mine. This is my dream.”

“Meg. You’re like a cockroach. You never really die.” The demon grinned. “Ava says hi, by the way.”

Meg arched an eyebrow. “She’s still sucking the sulfur, huh? Hasn’t made it back topside?”

“My mistress has earned a fine place in Hell. She need not walk this mortal realm to do her work,” the demon said, lifting her chin. She was the very picture of arrogance.

“Some work she’s managed to do,” Meg said. “You remind your boss that for all she was one of Azazel’s favorites, he called _me_ daughter.”

“Does Crowley know you’re back?” the demon asked. “I bet I’d get quite the promotion for bringing that little tidbit to him.”

“No,” Meg said, “you wouldn’t. Because I know Ava. She always sides with the girls. First Ruby, then Lilith, then Abaddon. If you went sniffing round Crowley’s throne, he’d cut your nose off and feed it to you.”

The demon threw her head back and laughed. So villain cliche. “He could try.”

Meg looked her up and down. “I’d watch your mouth. After I’m done decorating my throne room with Crowley’s entrails, Ava will come kowtowing to me, and guess who your new boss will be?”

“In your dreams.”

“We are in my dreams.”

The demon slunk close, slotted right up against Meg like she wanted to kiss, or dirty dance. “Indeed we are. And I know everything about you now. You don’t have what it takes to defeat Crowley, let alone rule Hell.”

“You’d be surprised.” Meg grabbed the demon’s arms, lifted her chin at Benny.

He lunged, drove the knife into the demon’s back.

It vanished.

Meg felt cold steel against her belly.

She came awake to the wailing of sensors, thrashing on the bed. 

Danielle came tearing into the room. Benny rolled off the bed and out of her way.

“Mrs. Lafferty,” she said, hands on Meg’s shoulders, “calm down. It was just a dream.”

Meg blinked up at her, confused.

“Mrs. Lafferty. Margaret,” Danielle said, voice urgent. 

“Meg,” Benny said. “Everyone calls her Meg.”

“Meg. Calm down.”

Meg locked gazes with Danielle, breathing hard. She inhaled. No scent of sulfur on Danielle.

“Mr. Lafferty,” Danielle said, “give us a minute?”

“Please, call me Benny.” He tugged on a pair of pants. “Sure. I’ll go get us a refill.” He grabbed both mugs and scurried out of the room. 

Meg watched him go and hoped he’d catch a whiff of sulfur somewhere out there. Of course, there was no requirement that the demon even be in the same building as the victims. 

Danielle’s fingers flew over the buttons on the machines like they were a piano and she was a concert-grade soloist. Meg reached up, clutched the hex bag at her throat. She couldn’t say it, the simple test word to check for another demon, and she was leery of reaching out with her power lest she negate the effects of the hex bag.

“Are you all right?” Danielle asked.

Meg nodded. “Yeah. Just. It was a really vivid dream,” Meg said.

“Your alpha waves were off the charts,” Danielle said. “Do you usually dream like that?”

“No. Not that I remember. Benny’s never complained about it, either.”

“Could be the stress of the test affecting you even in sleep.” Danielle sighed, tugged on the end of her ponytail. Her hair was fixed in myriad braids pulled back into a thick ponytail. A rainbow of colored beads clacked at the ends. “If this is atypical, we might have to redo the test.”

Meg sighed, scrubbed a hand over her face. “That’s what insurance is for.”

Danielle glanced at the door, bit her lip. “There’s something else to consider,” she said. “Look...are you safe at home?”

“What?”

“Men don’t always start off abusive. They’re sweet at first. Charming. But then they isolate you from friends and –”

Meg drew back. “Benny’s not like that.”

Danielle sighed. “I heard the way you screamed from all the way down the hall. Night terrors like that in adults are usually from trauma. What happened?”

Hell happened. Purgatory happened. “Nothing.”

“Have you tried seeing a counselor?”

“No,” Meg said. “Because nothing’s happened. Benny would never hurt me.” 

“Mrs. Lafferty –”

“It’s just stress. We’ll try again tomorrow, I guess. Can I take off these damn electrodes now?”

“Dr. Banh wants to salvage what he can,” Danielle said. 

“Fine.” Meg lay back down.

Danielle headed for the door, paused. “Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks. Benny should be back with the tea any moment now.”

Danielle bobbed her head and ducked out of the room.

Benny returned with two mugs of steaming water moments later. “No sign of sulfur. Do we go back in?”

“No,” Meg said. “We sleep. And we come back here tomorrow.”

“Why? Think it’ll try again?”

“Not with me. And the test has been screwed up. We’ll need a redo.”

“Good thing we have such excellent insurance.” Benny handed her a mug.

She swallowed down the hot water to wash out the bitter taste the dream had left in her mouth. Why had she dreamed of Jimmy and not Castiel?

“So, you dream of being Donna Reed, huh?”

Meg turned out the light.


	16. Chapter 16

The next morning, they packed up their bags while Dr. Banh informed them that due to Meg’s unusual nightmare, the test results were probably inaccurate and she would have to come in for a retest. If they couldn’t arrange for one that night, they could schedule to come in a few days later.

Meg shook her head. “The sooner, the better. I need to know what’s going on.” 

Dr. Banh nodded sympathetically. He thought she was talking about her nonexistent sleep issues. She was talking about the succubus.

Danielle kept casting Meg questioning looks as she walked them through the check-out procedure. She was noticeably cool to Benny, who took it in stride. He wasn’t as annoyed or amused at Danielle’s concern as Meg was.

“She seems like a kind soul,” Benny said. “She’s looking out for you.”

“If she knew what we really were, she’d probably be more worried about you,” Meg said. They trooped out to Trusty Rusty, which Benny had scrubbed clean and sprayed with some kind of chemical to stop the rust from spreading.

“Well, she doesn’t know what we are.” Benny raised his eyebrows at Meg. “Unless she’s the demon?”

“I didn’t smell any sulfur on her,” Meg said. “And she’d have noticed something about the hex bag I’m wearing.”

“We should get a new paint job,” Benny said. “If we’re going to keep this car for hunting, we don’t want it so ugly that people will remember it.”

“And yet so many people remember Sam and Dean’s pretty, shiny car.” Meg rolled her eyes. “But I get it. This machine is an extension of your manly ego. We’ll get it cleaned up.”

“If you know anything about me, it’s not cars I’m proud of,” Benny said. He still opened doors for her like the old-fashioned gentleman he’d once been before he started tearing throats out with his new teeth. “I take my pride in a good seafaring vessel.”

“Right. Do we have time to get a new paint job on this thing? Today?” Meg asked.

“More importantly, do we have money?” Benny shot back. They headed back to the motel to drop off their overnight gear.

“We can find the money,” Meg said. “Also, we need supplies for the rosewater. Found a recipe?”

“The recipe is simple,” Benny said. “It’s the supplies we don’t have.”

“Supplies like?”

“A kitchen, for starters.”

Meg hummed thoughtfully, sorting the dirty clothes from the clean. Had they been human, they’d have been overdue for some laundry. There was a reason Castiel had managed to wear the same outfit for half a decade, and it wasn’t because he did laundry. A brief flicker of power, and all their clothes were cleaned and folded.

Benny, hunched over the laptop, blinked. “Did you just...? With your power?”

“Why not?”

“Then why did you make me–?”

“Fold the laundry?” Meg grinned.

Benny scowled.

“So, what do we need to make the rosewater?”

“A massive stew pot, a stove, water, a strainer, something to keep the water in once we’re done, and a whole lot of roses.”

“Roses will be easy to find.” Meg shuffled her clothes back into her duffel, set Benny’s clothes next to his bag.

“We need to be able to boil the roses in the water,” Benny said.

Meg smirked. “We can break bad. Hot plate. Let’s go shopping, hubby.”

“For someone who was appalled by this whole marriage pretext, you seem to be having an awful lot of fun with it,” Benny said. “At my expense.”

Meg shrugged on her jacket. Both of them were woefully underdressed for the weather, which would have been a sign to any alert hunter that they were something other than human. When they swung by a thrift store to pick up cooking supplies, they could get scarves as well. Maybe a hat for Meg, since Benny rarely went anywhere without his beloved fisherman’s cap.

“I’m doing nice things, Benny,” she said. “I’m a demon. I have to keep my edge somehow.”

The nearest thrift store was a Goodwill on Dodge, the main drag through the center of the city. 

“You get cooking supplies. I’ll get some accessories,” Meg said.

Benny, holding the door open for her, paused. “Accessories? As in, clothing accessories? Why do we need those?”

Meg nodded her head at the huddle of college students in the parking lot, counting their pooled money for some kind of shared project. “You see them?”

“They’re kids.”

“You see how cold they look?”

“They’re human.”

“You want people to think we’re not?”

“Fine. Don’t get me anything too ugly,” Benny said.

For one second, Meg had the deepest urge to buy him the most hideous Christmas sweater she could find. Unfortunately, the whole point of burdening themselves with winter gear was so they wouldn’t stand out. She grabbed a little knit cap for herself, a couple of dark scarves, and headed over to the kitchen aisle where Benny had found a massive pot and was filling it with his supplies. 

There was a wistful cast to his expression as he ran his hand over the curve of a green ceramic soup tureen. 

Right. He liked cooking. That had been his mortal thing.

Meg remembered that, as a mortal, she had cooked. She couldn’t remember if she’d liked it or not.

“They won’t have a hot plate here,” she said, and he jumped.

Few creatures could get the drop on a vampire. “What did you find?”

She held up the items for his inspection and approval.

“Right on,” he said, fingering the edge of one of the dark scarves. Meg hadn’t noticed when she grabbed it, but it had a little anchor stitched into the bottom of it.

They paid with their dwindling supply of cash. Benny’s jaw tightened as Meg counted out bills from her thin roll. He cast her a glance. She shook her head minutely. Not here.

“The roses need to be fresh,” Benny said once they were outside. “Fresh roses are expensive. We’re running low on cash.”

“I know,” Meg said. “I have a plan.”

Benny eyed her warily. She gunned the engine, and they headed east. 

“What’s the plan?”

“Just over the river in Iowa are casinos,” Meg said. “We’re going to win big.”

“Isn’t counting cards illegal?”

Meg laughed. “I’m a demon. I don’t need to count cards.”

“Won’t they notice something is up when you win all kinds of money?” Benny asked.

Meg adopted the most innocent expression she could muster. Her meatsuit had had the potential to be a very good actress. “Me? Win money? Never. I’m just a little rabbit’s foot. You, on the other hand, are one lucky bastard.” 

“So...you’ll just use your demon mojo?”

“Honey, all casinos run on demon mojo. How else could they be as successful as they are?”

“Math?”

“And who do you think taught it to them?”

Benny eyed her disapprovingly.

“Not me personally.” She rolled her eyes. “So let’s go win some money. Then you can buy all the roses you want, and we can use the leftovers to make Trusty not so Rusty. Huh, buddy?” She patted the dashboard with mock-affection.

“Careful now. You’re starting to sound like Dean.”

“Who earns money by gambling, by the by,” Meg said.

Benny sucked in a deep breath as they crossed the bridge, rounded the city and approached the tall towers. “I’m not sure I like this idea.”

In daylight, the casinos looked old, tired, lights blinking dully. At night, they lit up all around them.

“Candy, baby, you know the drill.” Meg parked the car. “Now come on.”

Several hours, lots of free drinks, and acting like a drunk bimbo hoping to profit off some poor drifter’s lucky streak later, Meg and Benny were several thousand dollars up and ready to continue on their quest. The blessed thing about casinos was they were designed to distract players from whether it was day or night, so no one blinked twice at either of them being there before lunch.

“So,” Meg said, “do you want to go get the roses or get the car done?”

“How about we buy the roses and you drop me off back at the motel, then you get the car done? Two birds, one stone?”

“Oh, honey, you’re such a great strategist. I’m so glad I married you.” Meg fluttered her eyelashes at him.

He rolled his eyes and batted her away. “You’re not funny.”

“We _are_ acting like a married couple, though – worrying about finances, divvying up the errands.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the one with the Donna Reed fantasies, not me,” Benny said. “Speaking of...who’s Ava?”

“Long story,” Meg said. “But while you’re waiting for the rose water to boil, you could read all about it.”

“Seriously?”

“When am I ever not serious?”

Benny pitched his voice into falsetto, fluttered his eyelashes. “Oh, wow, you’re so lucky today. I wonder if your luck will keep _up_ later on.”

Meg punched him in the shoulder. “Just...read them all.”

“I feel like a creepy spy.”

“Embrace your inner creepy spy.”

“Fine. Which ones?”

“‘Hunted’ and ‘All Hell Breaks Loose.’ Not a very accurate title on that second one, but close enough.”

Meg poked around on her phone to find the fastest, if not best body shop in town, and headed straight there with Trusty Rusty. She offered the mechanic an extra two hundred if he got the job done by the end of business that day, said she’d wait, and then she set up camp in the waiting room with her phone and the tablet (Benny wasn’t fond of the tablet and was constantly nervous he’d break it if he poked it too hard; Meg refrained from making dirty jokes).

She glanced at her watch, calculated a time zone adjustment, and called Claire.

“Hello.”

“It’s me, Angelcakes,” Meg said.

“I do have caller ID. What’s up?”

“Can your special little friend tell me anything about Ava?”

“As in Eva Peron?”

Right. Claire was taking a survey course in South American history this semester. “No. As in Ava Wilson, one of Yellow Eyes’s special kids.”

“She’s dead.”

“She’s a demon, and she’s got a succubus working for her.”

“Let me make a few phone calls, and I’ll get back to you,” Claire said. “Seacrest out.”

“That’s my line,” Meg said, but the line was already dead.

She sighed and pocketed her cell phone. Then she pulled up the research Benny had collected – they were file sharing, so modern! – and started reading again. The demon knew she was in town, so it was probably underground. If it was smart, it would move on to new targets. 

Benny had identified the obvious pattern in the victims – patients at the sleep clinic, female. But there had to be something more than that. If every single female patient at the sleep clinic had gone comatose and died, the clinic probably would have been shut down pending further investigation. So there had to have been female patients who hadn’t been victimized.

What made the demon choose the women it did? And what made it choose Meg as well? She sighed. Did she have time to learn how to do some hacking?

Meg was jolted out of her reading haze two hours later when her phone rang. Out of spite, she’d set Benny’s ringtone as the opening theme song from the _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ TV show. (Claire’s was “Johnny Angel” by Shelly Fabares.) 

“Spike,” she said.

“Darla,” he returned without missing a beat.

“Ha! You’re learning. How’s it going?”

“Rose water is all done. Smells lovely. I might have a future as a perfumier. Also, I now know far more about Sam and Dean and the creature you called Father than I ever wanted to.”

Meg shrugged. “To be fair, I also called Lucifer ‘father’, so I wouldn’t get too hung up on who I have filial leanings toward,” Meg said.

“A battle royale in a ghost town? Really?”

“That wasn’t my idea.”

“How is Trusty Rusty?”

Meg stood up, stretched, peered out the window. “Not as rusty anymore, which is good. What, if anything, do you know about hacking?”

“I kinda know what it is. Why?”

“Because I think we missed something on the demon’s targets, and we need to figure it out,” Meg said. “So we can get to the next target before she does.”

“Do you know how to hack?”

“Not very well,” Meg said. “I read some, but I probably couldn’t pull off what I need to before tonight.”

“Think Claire knows any hackers?”

“I think Claire is better at being Bobby Singer than Bobby Singer ever dreamed he could be. Sit tight. I’ll call Claire.”

“I got a discount on the roses,” Benny said when Meg unlocked the motel room door.

The room smelled strongly of roses. Benny had several mason jars of slightly pink water lined up on the table. He’d cut one of the towels into strips to wrap the jars and prevent them from breaking in his duffel bag. He’d also been measuring out more portions of the dream root to make tea with that night.

“Discount? How’d you do that?”

“I told the florist my boyfriend thought I was cheating on him with a girl and I needed to apologize, and she took pity on me.”

Meg stopped in her tracks.

Benny grinned. “What can I say? I go with what works.”

“You actually –”

“Told her my boyfriend’s name was Dean and I showed her a picture.”

“Why do you have a picture of Dean?”

“It’s not of Dean, but the guy’s some kind of underwear model from Texas. Looked close enough.” 

“Why do you have pictures of Texan underwear models on your phone?”

“I can use Google. I was improvising.”

Meg snorted. “You know Dean’s going to find out about that, right?”

“Only if you tell him.”

“Or if, I don’t know, he reads what the current prophet is writing,” Meg said.

Benny raised his eyebrows, but before he could ask about the current prophet – Meg still knew criminally little about her – Shelly Fabares’s tinny voice rang out. Meg flipped her cell phone out of her pocket, put it on speaker.

“Speak to me, Lady Clarence.”

“I called in another favor, got a friend to go Penelope Garcia on the hospital computer system, and files are on your way. I haven’t looked at them, so I don’t know what, if anything, the victims have in common,” Claire said. “How’s Spike?”

“Full of romance.”

“Dare I ask?”

“He made the rose water.”

“Good luck with the succubus,” Claire said.

“What can you tell us about the current prophet?”

Claire chuckled, amused. “Later, Spike and Anya.” And she hung up.

Meg scowled at her phone.

“Who’s Anya?” Benny asked.

“A vengeance demon.” Meg scooped up the tablet, prodded it into connecting with the motel’s atrociously slow wifi.

Benny hummed thoughtfully. “That’s more fitting than Darla.”

Meg scanned the zipped files Claire had sent. “Here,” she said to Benny, forwarding half of them to him. “Read fast.”

By the time it was nightfall, they’d found nothing. None of the women had anything in common, besides their relative ages, all in their mid twenties to early thirties. They were all from different parts of the state, had no friends or associates in common, were from all different ethnic and cultural backgrounds. They all had different jobs, too. And different religions. In fact, at least half of them had no religious preference at all.

“None of them have anything in common with me,” Meg said.

“Besides your age.”

“You mean this body’s age. Which isn’t as accurate as you’d think.” Meg tugged up the hem of her shirt to display the array of scars the body had accrued during her tenure. “Stopped aging the first time it died. It’s been all me ever since.”

“All of them are single,” Benny said, “and none of them have had kids.”

“In fact, most of them marked on their charts that they weren’t sexually active in the past year,” Meg added. Something niggled at the back of her memory. Young women, healthy, no children. They had that much in common. The demon would have known that from a quick perusal of their minds during their dreams.

And then Meg thought of her dream: house dress, apron, making dinner for a husband and child.

Oh, hell.

Alarm crossed Benny’s face. “What’s wrong?” 

“Did I say that aloud?”

“Say what?” Benny asked.

Meg reeled off an impressive array of expletives in French.

It took Benny a moment to catch on, and then he looked a little flabbergasted. “What’s the matter?”

“Another antichrist,” Meg said. “They’re trying to make another one. If a succubus collects enough sexual energy from a basically pure woman with very strong maternal instincts, combines it with the right incubus – we’ll have a new antichrist walking the earth.”

“That’s...” Benny trailed off, gazing at nothing in the distance, face blank with horror. “Wait, why did the demon pick you, then?”

“I fit the basic profile,” Meg said. “Young. Haven’t had sex in a year. Never had children.”

“But you don’t have strong maternal instincts,” Benny said, and then he paused, frowned. “Wait. That whole Donna Reed business with Castiel –”

So he hadn’t realized it was Jimmy and not Castiel, which still made no sense to Meg but which she didn’t want to examine too closely.

“The hex bag might have messed with its ability to read me,” Meg said. “Or maybe...maybe it just creates that kind of dream in the woman to power the spell.”

“Maybe,” Benny said, though he looked dubious.

“Chances are, the demon’s moved on from the hospital,” Meg said.

“Let’s get this test done and find out.” 


	17. Chapter 17

Dr. Banh greeted them, same as before, only this time they skipped the explanations and the paperwork. It was a different nurse – petite, bespectacled, with wildly curly honey-brown hair – who set Meg up with the electrodes. The routine was the same: tea, banter, reading. Meg decided to go for some curtain!fic, hoping that some domestic vibes might draw the succubus in. Benny refused to read any more _Supernatural_ on principle, so Meg directed him to some LJ Smith books so he wouldn’t look baffled every time she called him Stefan.

The new nurse, Jen, peeked in right before lights out.

“All comfy?” she asked.

Meg nodded.

“We should get started soon. The test requires at least eight hours of sleep,” Jen said.

“Where’s Danielle?” Meg asked. “I thought she’d be here tonight.”

Jen shrugged. “Home sick, I guess. At least, that’s what they told me when they called me in to cover her shift. She did look pretty exhausted when I came in. Still, I have kids and she doesn’t.” She pursed her lips, annoyed. “At least this shift will cover the cost of a babysitter. So, lights out in the next five minutes, okay?”

Meg and Benny exchanged glances, remembered to smile when they made eye contact, and nodded at Jen. She bobbed her head in acknowledgement and closed the door.

“All right,” Benny said. “Ready for this?”

“Are you?” Meg countered.

She set her phone aside and lay flat. She knew humans had preferences for sleeping, ingrained after years of unconscious habit. She didn’t know if her body had a preference, if it even could manifest its preference after its original soul had been gone so long. She closed her eyes anyway.

  
*

Meg came awake sharply when the overhead light flipped on.

Benny woke up next to her, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. He turned to her, eyes wide and full of horror.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Benny scuttled backward, away from her. “That’s what you _dream?_ ”

Meg blinked, confused. She couldn’t remember dreaming a thing.

The door flew open. Dr. Banh crossed the room in fewer strides than his short legs should have allowed, and he unhooked Meg from the machines with frightening efficiency.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “you must go. Call my office and I’ll write up a referral to a different clinic. This one is closed.”

Meg stared at him. “What? What’s going on?”

“Order of the CDC, ma’am.” The young man in the doorway was tall, broad-shouldered, official-looking in his dark suit. He didn’t look like a real CDC doctor, though. Was he a hunter? Had hunters caught on to the succubus as well?

“Hurry,” Dr. Banh said.

“Let me get dressed,” Meg said. She lifted her chin at Benny, who had snapped to soldier-alertness. He rolled to his feet and tugged on his clothes swiftly. Dr. Banh and the CDC agent left the room, closed the door after them, but that was moot since the entire room was under video surveillance.

“Pretty sudden of the CDC to do this,” Benny murmured under cover of helping Meg pack her duffel bag.

“Not sure it’s really the CDC.”

Benny raised his eyebrows. “Hunters?”

“Maybe. We found this succubus the old-fashioned way. Stands to reason some other hunters could have, too.” Meg finished bundling up her duffel bag, and then she and Benny swept out of the room. 

If this was hunters, they’d come prepared for some serious pretexting, because the hall was cluttered with other agents, and even one or two people wearing white hazmat suits. White suits could mean quarantine. Damn. Meg locked gazes with Benny, who nodded, and instead of slowing down to eavesdrop, they sped up.

Jen the nurse said, “They had contact with her last night.”

Heads turned. The broad-shouldered CDC agent pinned Benny with his gaze.

“Both of them?” he asked.

Jen nodded.

Her. Who was her? The only her they’d met last night was – Danielle. The nurse. 

The CDC agent gestured at Benny and Meg and said, “Quarantine them.”

Dr. Banh, expression resigned, was allowing two figures in white suits to tug him into one of the testing rooms.

“Meg,” Benny said, “what do we do?”

“Let them take us,” Meg said, “and when they can’t see us, we leave.”

“How will you manage that?”

“Hi, I’m Meg. I’m a demon,” she said under her breath.

He rolled his eyes at the familiar phrase but nodded.

White-clad figures swarmed them. Meg wondered if this was what Castiel felt like when he was dragged back to Heaven for reprogramming. She wondered if Naomi had been his reprogrammer even back then.

“Wait,” Meg cried out, twisting weakly in their grip (they were mortal, small, weak, she could crush them with a thought). “No. My husband. Let us stay together. Please.”

The young CDC agent lifted a hand, and the tugging on her ceased. Then he paused, listened to his secret service-like earpiece and shook his head. “Separate the men and the women.”

Meg resumed struggling and screaming for Benny.

He called out to her, and damn he was good, he sounded genuinely upset. Jen the nurse looked guilty and anxious. Even the young CDC agent looked regretful. But Meg was locked in one of the testing rooms alone.

As soon as the door was shut, she was on one of the chairs, punching at the camera. Outside, someone shouted. “What the hell is she doing?”

“Answered your own question, Short Bus,” Meg said. And then she reached out, felt for Benny’s consciousness. She could never read his mind, but here on the mortal plane, when he was close enough, she could sense him.

She reached for her cell phone, fired off a text message. _Kill the camera_.

She wedged the chair under the door handle and braced her back against it. Fists hammered on the door.

“Mrs. Lafferty, I know you’re upset, but you have to let us monitor you,” the CDC agent said.

More shouts echoed down the corridor.

“Another camera’s out.”

The agent cursed. “Why are they destroying the cameras?”

Meg blinked out of existence, duffel bag and all. She materialized in Benny’s room long enough to get a hand on the lapel of his jacket, and then they were on the front bench seat of Trusty.

Meg heaved her duffel bag into the back seat and peeled out of the parking lot.

“Where are we going?” Benny asked.

“To find that nurse.”

  


According to Claire’s hacker friend, Danielle Henderson lived on the north side of the city in a small apartment she rented all by herself, across the street from a rowdy bar. She drove an old but well cared-for Dodge Neon parked next to the stairs leading up to the apartment. All her lights were out.

The CDC would be here any minute. Meg parked Trusty around the block and out of sight, teleported them in. Danielle lay on her bed, deathly still, too still for sleep.

Meg reached out, tugged a few of Danielle’s hairs free. She kept them cupped in her hand while Benny rummaged through the cupboards for a couple of mugs. Meg used a burst of power to boil the water, and then she paced back and forth, waiting for the tea to steep. Benny closed all the curtains, locked all the windows. He broke the broom and used the halves of the handle to jam the windows shut. 

“Tea’s done,” Meg said, stirring in Danielle’s hair. “Hide under the bed.”

Benny paused, mug halfway to his lips. “What? Why?”

“They won’t look for us there. Don’t want to be awakened so rudely again.” Meg clinked her mug against Benny’s. “Bottoms up, Louis.”

“I think I’m more of an Armand.”

Meg glared at him, wordlessly ordering him to drink.

Benny obeyed.

Then they wedged themselves under the bed, careful not to leave any edges of clothes or shoes sticking out, and closed their eyes.

Mama Cass was singing about stars shining bright above.

“Sounds a little clich&ecuate to me,” Benny said.

Light came up on a beautifully domestic scene. Danielle, wearing comfortable jeans and an old, worn, much-loved off-the-shoulder sweater, was humming along to the music, standing in front of the stove and stirring a massive pot of stew. She paused, checked something in the oven, and the scent of fresh-baked rolls filled the spacious kitchen. The pale tile floor was covered with scattered throw rugs, soft underfoot. The counters were topped with heavy granite, and the cupboards were made of solid dark wood. One swinging door led out to a dining room with a massive table, the type usually reserved for manor houses of the rich and inbred. Every place was set.

Danielle sang out, “Daddy will be home in fifteen minutes! Make sure you’re washed up for dinner.”

Meg crossed the kitchen in a few quick strides. “Danielle.”

She screamed and whirled around, one hand pressed to her throat in shock. “Who are you?”

“Danielle, where’s your husband?”

Danielle lunged, scooped up the nearest weapon, which was a wickedly-sharp carving knife.

Benny raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “We’re here to help.”

Danielle frowned, her stance with the knife wavering. “Mr. Lafferty? Meg? What are you doing here?”

“You’re not safe,” Benny said. “We have to get you out of here.”

“Why are you in my house?” Danielle lowered the knife.

“We’re not in your house,” Meg said, “because this isn’t even a house. You’re asleep, and you’re dreaming. You need to wake up before you die.”

“I’m not asleep –”

“You’re dreaming!” Meg threw her hands up. “You live in a crappy apartment in North Omaha. You’re a nurse. A nurse at a sleep clinic where a bunch of the patients have gone into comas and then died. Right now you’re heading for the coma part. So snap out of it.”

Danielle looked back and forth between them. “Is this one of those hidden camera pranks?”

“No,” Benny said, “it’s not a prank –”

Meg slapped Danielle across the face. “Wake up!”

“Hey!” Danielle cried, clapping a hand to her cheek, outraged. She paused. “Wait. That – that didn’t hurt.”

“Like we said, you’re dreaming,” Meg said, “and it’s time to wake up.”

The dining room door swung open. An adorable six-year-old girl wearing a blue denim jumper and pigtails stood in the doorway.

“Mommy, I’m all washed up.” She displayed her little hands for everyone to see. She didn’t seem to notice Meg or Benny.

Danielle stared at the girl in confusion. “Mimi, give Mommy a moment, okay? Good job washing your hands.”

Mimi giggled and bobbed her head, then vanished from the doorway.

“What the hell is going on?” Danielle asked. She looked at Benny and Meg, switched her gaze back to Benny again. “I know you. I remember you. I know I’m a nurse.” She pressed a hand to her forehead. “But I also know I’ve been married for the past eight years.”

“Eight years?” Meg echoed. “Have you been pregnant the entire time? Because you have enough place settings out there for the Brady Bunch and the Partridges combined. Was it all twins?”

“What? No.” Danielle laughed like Meg had said something funny. “The other mothers are staying here, too. Just till the danger is over.”

“Other mothers?” Benny echoed.

Danielle nodded. “Their husbands contacted mine. They said there’s someone out there, someone who wants to hurt us, to take away our children.”

Crap. Maternal instinct, amplified. The demon was storing the energy from all of the victims in a central location.

“What’s your husband’s name?” Meg asked, stalling.

The kitchen door swung open. A man, tall and beautiful, dark-skinned and strong, held a gun in one hand. “Like you need to ask.”

“Morgan!” Danielle cried. “What are you doing?” She flinched when she looked at the gun.

“I warned you,” Morgan said. “People want to hurt you, to take your children, and you let them into the house.”

Danielle turned her gaze, wide-eyed and betrayed, on Meg and Benny. She leveled the knife at Meg. “You – but you said this was a dream, you said –”

“It’s _your_ dream,” Meg said. “We’re just guests. You have all the control.”

“Hey now,” Benny began, and he was right. It was the wrong thing for Meg to have said.

“You _do_ have control,” Morgan said. “You can stop them.”

Meg and Benny abruptly found themselves chained to the wall where the refrigerator and china cabinet had been. 

“Good job, Anya,” Benny said. He struggled. It was no use.

“You are attractive and have many fine qualities,” Meg gritted out, struggling as well. Just in case.

Benny said, “Meg didn’t lie to you. She said this was a dream, right? That’s why you have power over us. Did Morgan ever tell you this was a dream?”

Danielle wavered. She darted a glance at Morgan. “Honey –”

“Don’t listen to them. They’re here to hurt you.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “If we were here to hurt you, would we have lied to you? If you have power over us, you have power over him, too.”

Danielle darted a glance between Meg and Morgan. “But he’s my husband –”

“You said you remembered,” Meg said, “us as patients, that you remember being a nurse. When did you marry Morgan?”

“Eight years ago.”

“What were your wedding colors?”

“Silver and pink.”

“Who was your maid of honor?”

“My sister.”

“Who was Morgan’s best man?”

“His best friend.”

“What was his name? What did he look like? When did you last see him?”

Danielle pressed her hands to her temples, brow furrowed in pain. “Stop it. Just stop! You’re confusing me!”

“Well, get un-confused, and fast,” Meg snapped, “because right now you’re in a coma, and you’re going to die! Like the other patients at the sleep clinic where you work!”

Morgan crossed the room in a few strides, gathered Danielle in his arms. “It’s okay, baby. Don’t listen to her. She’s a liar. She’s a monster.”

“And so is he,” Meg said, lifting her chin at Morgan.

Danielle curled into Morgan’s embrace.

“Baby,” Morgan said, “look at me.” He tipped her chin up with one finger. “I love you.”

Meg caught Benny’s gaze. “Do something,” she hissed.

“Like what?” He wriggled his bound arms for emphasis.

Meg bit her lip. “Say it. The word. That I can’t say.”

“You mean – Christo?”

The world flickered at the edges of Meg’s vision.

Danielle made a strange sound. “Morgan? What...?”

He spun to face Benny. Rage contorted his features as his eyes flickered from black to normal. “You stupid worm –”

“I might be a monster,” Meg said, “but so is your husband. A monster who’s trying to hurt you.”

“How do I know _you’re_ not trying to hurt me, too?” Danielle pointed the knife somewhere useless halfway between Meg and Morgan.

“Because we came to the clinic to try to track the monster down and stop him,” Meg said. “Now come on, you stupid woman, wake up!”

Morgan had Benny by the throat and was hoisting him toward the ceiling. “She can’t,” Morgan said. “She’s weak. I’ve been walking dreams for so long. In this place, I am a god.”

“I have it on good authority that being a god isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Meg said. She pinned Danielle with a glare. “Now wake up, dammit!”

Danielle was sobbing. “How? Morgan, stop, you’re killing him!”

“He would have killed you, babe,” Morgan said, only his voice came out wrong. Mangled. 

Benny made an unhealthy gurgling sound.

“This is _your_ dream,” Meg said to Danielle. “Take control of something, for once in your life!”

Danielle was trembling. “What do you mean? I control my life. I raise my kids right, I –”

“I’ve seen your apartment,” Meg said. “The ratty furniture, the hand-me-down clothes, the stacks and stacks of half-finished self-help books. You’ve never stood up for yourself a day in your life, and now you’re going to die because of it.”

“Don’t listen to her, baby,” Morgan crooned. Blood leaked from around his fingertips where they were digging into Benny’s throat. “Listen to me. It’s my job to protect you, keep you and the kids safe.”

“You don’t have any kids,” Meg spat.

Benny’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. He was dying.

Meg said, “This is a dream, remember? Your dream. You trapped us here against the wall. You can set us free.”

Danielle blinked, startled, just barely remembering. The chains disappeared. Meg was across the room in a single breath. She wrenched Morgan away from Benny, threw him down on the ground. Danielle screamed. Meg stomped on Morgan’s throat, hard, and then she spun around, raised a hand to Danielle.

“Now, dammit, _wake up!_ ”


	18. Chapter 18

Danielle came awake screaming. Meg opened her eyes, reached for Benny. He coughed and spluttered.

“Are the men in the white suits out there?” Meg hissed at Benny.

He paused, did his vampire hearing thing, shook his head. “But someone is out there.”

The mattress springs squeaked. Danielle made a gurgling sound not unlike the one Benny had made moments before in the dream.

Meg was surrounded by a rush of cold air as the bed flew off the floor and slammed into the ceiling. The succubus was wearing a pretty, slender blonde woman wearing hospital scrubs, but not the same kind the employees at the sleep clinic wore. She didn’t look nearly as pretty as she made herself out to be in dreams.

She had Danielle by the throat and was slowly squeezing. “Meg. And stunt vampire number whatever. Hunting other demons, are we?” Her expression was sly, unimpressed.

“Not other demons,” Meg said. “Just you.”

“You’re not as impressive as you think you are,” the succubus said.

“And Azazel’s special children aren’t much to look at either,” Meg said. “Too bad you’re just a photocopy, and a shoddy one at that.”

“Says the girl who called Azazel ‘daddy’.”

“Says the demon who’s going to rip your lungs out.” Sometimes borrowing a turn of phrase from Dean Winchester wasn’t such a bad idea.

“Touch me and she dies.” The succubus sneered.

Meg raised her hands in a gesture of surrender. “Me? I won’t be touching you. Benny, on the other hand –”

The succubus lunged, slapped her palm against Benny’s forehead, and he wilted like a harvested wheat stalk.

“There,” said the succubus. “He’s having sweet dreams about –” She licked her lips, grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

There, on the tip of her tongue, like a trendy new tattoo, was the image of a mouth, pouty pursed lips.

Meg wrenched Danielle out of the succubus’s grip with a simple flick of power. People always underestimated her. Or at least, demons who’d never read _Supernatural_ , which Crowley was eventually smart enough to do. The demon gossip mill just wasn’t what it used to be, judging by the shock on the succubus’s face. Meg sent a tendril of power Benny’s way to wake him up. No success. She shrugged, kept her grip on the succubus with her telekinesis, and pried her jaw open. Then she grabbed the knife out of her jacket and started cutting.

Danielle, who had stirred from where she landed against the wall, started screaming again.

The cops would be here any moment with all the noise going on.

Someone pounded on the other side of the bedroom wall. “Keep it down!”

Or not.

Meg had no time. She blinked out to the car, rifled in the duffel bag for the jar of rosewater, and dropped the tongue in. Then she blinked back into the house.

Right as the men in the white suits kicked the door down.

Meg had no choice. She grabbed Benny and Danielle and blinked them back out to the car. Benny and Danielle landed in the back seat, Benny coming awake with a jolt. Huhn. Teleportation jolted someone out of succubus dreams. Good to know. Danielle screamed and pressed herself into the corner, sobbing. Benny heaved himself upright, blinking and rubbing his eyes.

“Seatbelts,” Meg reminded them, and she eased the car out into traffic. No need to rush, to draw attention to themselves. She drove back to the motel.

“Where are we? Are you kidnapping me?” Danielle whispered, sniffling. She eyed Meg and Benny warily.

“No,” Meg said flatly. “We saved you from a nasty CDC quarantine strip search, hose-down procedure, and then long-term lock-up while those morons run around like chickens with their heads cut off, utterly unable to discover the source of the illness you no longer have. So, you’re welcome.”

Danielle crumpled and wept.

Benny scooted closer to her. “Hey, now, you’re fine. See? You’re awake. You’re not hurt. Everything’s okay, I promise.” His voice was gentle, soothing.

Danielle’s shoulders shook with sobs. 

Meg said, “Benny, we need to clear out our gear and go. They’ll be looking for us. I know the clinic parking lot had security cameras. And they’ll have found the dead meatsuit by now. She can hide in our room for a few days till the furor dies down. But we need to move. Now.” She parked behind the motel.

Benny went on as if Meg weren’t even present. “I know you’re scared. What happened back there was terrifying and horrible, and there isn’t a good explanation for what happened. But you’re safe now, okay?”

Danielle shook her head, hiccuped wetly.

Meg tossed her head. “Benny, we have to go. Just boot her –”

“Will you shut up?” Benny snarled.

Meg sat back, startled by the force of his voice.

“This woman just went through a nightmare. She’s seen more than she thought possible. And she was a victim. She needs our help.”

“She was collateral damage,” Meg began, but Benny pinned her with a look.

“Get out of the car.”

Meg blinked. “What?”

“Go get our stuff out of the motel room,” Benny said, pointing. “And let me handle this.”

Meg glanced at Danielle, who had now inched toward Benny and looked about ready to collapse in his arms, then back at Benny’s severe expression. She sighed and got out of the car. She climbed the dank, echoing stairwell up to the motel room, made a thorough search of it in case they’d scattered anything important, and packed up all their belongings. She checked out with the night manager, who barely blinked when she signed her false name, and then she took a deep breath, returned to the parking lot.

It wasn’t an ego thing. Yes, demons had egos, but not the same way humans did. She wasn’t mad at Benny, or upset, or even offended. She was just...a little baffled. This was her quest, her cause, and he was just her sidekick.

Right?

She was the one who could teleport, who knew how to run money scams, who knew all the lore. Benny was the one who was sitting on the hood of the car, Danielle beside him and laughing at something he was saying, maybe a joke judging by the flutter of his hands in the air.

Meg hefted both duffel bags, lifted her chin at Benny.

“Everything’s here.” She rattled the one duffel bag so the glass jars clinked meaningfully.

“Thanks, Meg,” Benny said.

Danielle’s wide smile dimmed a fraction, but she nodded at Meg as well. “Yeah. Thanks, Meg. I’m sorry I assumed he was – you know. He explained.”

Meg paused, halfway to throwing the duffel bags into the back seat. “He did?”

“Yeah. About the PTSD, and how you had each other’s backs in Afghanistan. He said it was hell. So, I’m sorry,” Danielle said. “Thank you for saving me.”

“Sure. Whatever,” Meg said. “C’mon, Benny.”

He cleared his throat pointedly.

Meg arched an eyebrow at him, confused.

He tipped his head in Danielle’s direction.

Realization dawned. “Oh! Right. I’m sorry I yelled at you and called you stupid.”

“I guess I was kinda stupid, huh?” Danielle ducked her head, sheepish.

“That’s not true, darlin’,” Benny said. “You just weren’t prepared for what we were dealing with. You did fine. You helped get us out of there in the end.” He straightened up. “Now, go find those books I recommended. Meg and I have to hit the road.”

“People to save, monsters to hunt?” Danielle asked, straightening up reluctantly as well. The way her gaze lingered on Benny and his broad shoulders was telling.

“Something like that,” Benny said. He waved, headed around to the driver’s side.

Meg waved, a little belatedly. Moments later, a cab pulled up. Danielle climbed in. Once the cab was out of sight, Benny fired up the engine.

“You know,” he said, “you catch more flies with honey than with –”

Meg held up a hand. “Stop with the Aesop.”

Benny guided the car onto the interstate. They’d best get out of Nebraska, and the quickest way to accomplish that was to hop the bridge to Iowa, give the authorities something to think about while they hunkered down and searched for some demonic omens.

“I know you can play nice,” Benny said. “Or at least, you can fake it. You managed to do it with Sam Winchester.”

“Once. And only for a brief while.”

“A long enough while that he considered you a sympathetic ear when he complained about Dean.”

Meg shrugged. “I knew everything that went on between those boys, had seen inside their little heads. Sam, violin. Me, Vanessa Mae.”

The allusion was lost on Benny, but he didn’t seem to care. “I get that you’re a demon and all, but if it means getting the job done faster, you could at least learn to be play nice.”

“Kicking her out of the car would have gone faster.”

“And ensured the FBI ended up on our tail,” Benny said. “Danielle will keep quiet for us now.”

“Fine.” Meg rolled her eyes. “Maybe you have a point.”

Benny tugged his phone out of his jacket pocket. “Driver picks the music.”

Meg sighed but fired up some Robert Johnson for him.

“Great blues from this man,” Benny said.

Meg smirked faintly to herself, booted up the reading app on her phone. “He made a deal with a devil.”

Benny huffed, exasperated. “Can’t you try to be nice for a single second and not ruin everything I enjoy at ever turn?”

“I _was_ being nice. Great music, brought to you by Hell. Some terrible music, too, but usually great music. _Devil’s Trill_ and all that.”

“Meg!”

“Fine! Fine. Next time the need arises, I will try to be nice.”

Benny cast her another look.

“Okay, next time _you_ decide the need arises, I will try to be nice.”

Ten miles down the road, Meg looked up from her phone and said, “Did you tell that woman to read the _Supernatural_ books?”

**Title:** Empty Vessel  
**Author:** Clairestiel  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Pairings/Warnings:** None/None  
**Summary:** Claire Novak is still out there. This is her story. ~~AU after _Swan Song_~~ Coda to KTAP’s _Frontierland_.  
  


Every night before she went to bed, Claire knelt and prayed. She’d prayed to God every night as a child up till the day her father vanished, after which her prayers became more and more infrequent. And then one day God answered her prayers, and with her father came demons, hunters, blood, possession, and death. Mom stopped praying altogether, but Claire prayed sometimes, sneaked prayers to God or Castiel to keep her dad safe.

And then one day Castiel answered her prayer, saved her from bullies, an insignificant event compared to the things Castiel was facing, like the Apocalypse. But he came to visit her again, and he made her a friendship bracelet, and he came to visit her again and again, healed her when she was sick and read to her till she fell asleep, and she started praying again.

To him. She didn’t thank him for creating her world; he hadn’t. She didn’t ask him for blessings; he was busy. She talked to him, long, rambling one-sided conversations where she let him know how Mom was doing so he could tell her dad, who was in Heaven. She told him how school was going, and anything happy she experienced that day to remind him that humans were still worth fighting for. She hoped her dad was all right, and could he tell Dad she missed him and loved him? She hoped Castiel was all right, too.

She prayed the way Mormon missionaries told her to pray to God once. _Have a conversation with Him. Tell Him your thoughts and your fears. He cares about you._

Claire was pretty sure Castiel cared about her. Mostly sure. She prayed so he would know _she_ cared about _him_. He was an angel, something bigger and scarier than most people could comprehend, and he belonged to a world that was more important than paying bills and getting to class on time. He was a soldier who had been abandoned by his family. Claire was, in a way, the only family he had, the only blood he shared on this earth.

And she felt less alone, knowing that whatever she said in her prayers, Castiel heard. Even if he never talked back, she knew that as soon as she invoked his name in prayer, he could hear her.

She didn’t ask him for anything, not really. Sometimes she joked. “By the way, my history final is tomorrow. I studied pretty hard, but I could always use a little help. I bet you know all of history. So, if you get a moment, come be the angel on my shoulder.”

Claire took a deep breath. It felt a little strange, to kneel and close her eyes, clasp her hands and talk to empty air. If her mother walked in on her – well. Mom wouldn’t talk to her for a week. “I know you’re in the middle of a civil war and all, but –”

“Castiel doesn’t have time for this.”

Claire paused, reached under the bed for the safety pouch. She dug around in it for the water pistols. One had holy water, the other holy oil. Then she turned, raising both plastic pistols.

“Who are you? What do you want?” Claire demanded, aiming both pistols at the intruder.

The woman was tall, slender, blonde. Beautiful. She wore a black leather jacket over a paisley blue blouse and neat slacks, like some kind of personal assistant for a celebrity.

“I am Rachel,” she said. “I am Castiel’s lieutenant. He is, as you noted, fighting a civil war and commanding an army right now. If you need help on your history test, then you should study.” Her expression was severe and unimpressed.

Claire said, “I wasn’t actually asking for help. I was just making conversation.”

Rachel furrowed her brow. “But I clearly heard you –”

“You heard my prayer to Castiel?” This Rachel person was an angel, then. Claire reached behind her, replaced the holy water pistol.

“As his lieutenant, I handle his lesser affairs,” Rachel said, lifting her chin. She sounded self-important, a cheerleading captain who thought she was a police chief.

Claire’s throat closed. “How long have you been intercepting his prayers?”

“Long enough to know that your prayers are ill-thought out and ill-conceived and that you lack faith in our Father,” Rachel said.

Claire wanted to throw up. This stranger, this unfeeling thing wearing a human body, had been listening to her bare her soul to one of the only friends she had left in this world. “Well, I wasn’t praying to your father, I was praying to Castiel.”

“What do you want, besides unnecessary assistance for your petty existence?” Rachel asked.

“Like I said, to make conversation.” Claire kept the oil pistol trained on Rachel. “I just want Castiel to know someone out there remembers him and cares for him.”

There were plenty of people who cared about Castiel, but that was because they thought he was a beloved fictional character, not a real entity. How many fans had prayed to him, out of sheer curiosity or out of a faithful disconnection from reality?

“I’m his friend,” Rachel said, “and I care about him.”

Claire lifted her chin. “If you really were one of his friends, then you would know who I am.”

“A whiny, self-absorbed brat,” Rachel said.

Claire held up her right hand, displayed the faded and fraying friendship bracelet she’d made last year. “See this?”

“What about it?”

“Have you ever noticed how Castiel, when he manifests in human form, wears one as well? On his left wrist, in shades of blue and green?”

Rachel’s eyes narrowed. She had no idea what Claire was talking about. “What do a few bits of knotted string matter?”

“This is called a friendship bracelet,” Claire said. “Friends make these for each other and wear them. Castiel is my friend.”

“That’s just a petty human tradition.”

“Friendship,” Claire said, “is a human concept. What would _you_ know about it?”

Rachel’s frown deepened. “You know I am not human. You know I and Castiel are both angels. Real angels. You are not awed by my presence.”

“Well, you didn’t do the thing where your eyes glow blue with grace and lightning flashes and I see the shadow of your wings,” Claire said. “Teleportation’s not that impressive. Even demons can do it.” She shrugged with feigned nonchalance.

Anger and disbelief flashed across Rachel’s face at being compared to a demon. “Who _are_ you?”

“Castiel’s friend,” Claire said. “So I pray to him. I talk to him. I let him know I remember him.”

Rachel shook her head, smoothed out her expression to professional cold blankness. “As I said before, Castiel doesn’t have time for your prattle, and neither do I. I have genuine prayers to intercept and answer.”

“You mean answer when it helps your cause,” Claire said flatly. “Except, oh wait, Castiel answering the prayers of the humans you were created to protect doesn’t help your cause, does it?” She tilted her head quizzically, just the way she’d seen Castiel do it. “What is your cause, these days?” She was crazy. She was taunting a full-blown angel. 

Rachel’s eyes flared blue, and she lifted her hand. She looked ready to smite.

“Castiel,” Claire said, “will just bring me back.” She didn’t know for sure, but she liked the anger that flashed in Rachel’s eyes at the words.

“Rachel, stop.” Castiel caught Rachel’s wrist, appearing with the thunder of a thousand beating wings.

“Castiel!” Rachel jerked back, surprised.

“She means no harm,” Castiel said. He turned to Claire. “I stopped hearing your prayers. I assumed you were busy with school and your training. I missed them.”

Rachel’s fish-like gape was unflattering. “Castiel, you don’t mean –”

“Let her prayers through, please,” he said. “Her voice is pleasant to me.”

Rachel looked furious and something else. After a moment, Claire realized: she was jealous.

“You are a good soldier,” Castiel said to Rachel. “I appreciate all the support you give me and the others. But the support Claire offers me is invaluable and irreplaceable. I hope you understand that.”

Rachel nodded slowly, drawing her wrist out of Castiel’s grip, but she didn’t understand. Instead, she inclined her head, a knight to her liege. “Of course, Castiel.” And she was gone, the fluttering of her wings tiny in comparison.

Castiel raised an eyebrow at the plastic pistol. Claire blushed, fumbled it back into its bag.

“Sorry,” she said. “Just a precaution.”

“Your caution is good,” he said. “Thank you for not shooting me, although I am not sure how water would hurt an angel.”

“Holy oil, actually,” Claire said.

“Oh. That is quite ingenious.”

“I try to keep safe.” Claire tugged her knees up to her chest, curled her arms around them and rested her chin on them. Embarrassment roiled through her. Someone else had been listening in on her prayers. “So...Rachel. What a peach.”

“She’s good at her job,” Castiel said. “She helps me.” He sat down next to her, mimicked her pose. For her, at least, he seemed to have mastered the art of personal space.

“How goes the war in Heaven?” Claire asked.

“No better than the last one,” Castiel said.

Claire blinked. “Have there been many wars up there?”

“Just one before,” Castiel said. “When Michael cast Lucifer down. How goes school?”

“It goes,” Claire said. She sighed. “I did study for my history test. Just...it’s so hard to care. All those names and dates. What does any of it matter?”

“So much of what’s in those history textbooks is wrong, too,” Castiel agreed.

Claire lifted her head. “What?”

“Of course it is. Human memory and perception are notoriously unreliable, not to mention the ego of the victors always gets in the way.” Castiel nodded earnestly. “Very few things in this world are eternal, constant, and sure.”

“I’m studying the Civil War. That was pretty recent. We even have photographs. Letters. Lots of firsthand accounts. How is that unreliable?” Claire asked.

“The battle of Antietam,” Castiel said. “So many died, correct? More than in any other battle.”

Claire nodded.

“More died than necessary.”

“More people die than necessary in every war and battle,” Claire pointed out.

“True. But given the physical limitations of the soldiers in poor health with poor gear, so many should not have died in combat,” Castiel said. “It wasn’t possible. But for the demons.”

“Demons?” Claire echoed. “You mean the Confederates...?”

“Both sides. In every war, both sides,” Castiel said. “Demons will serve whoever is willing to pay. Have you not looked closely at the pictures and seen how so many of the men have no souls?”

Claire groaned and buried her face against her knees. “I don’t know what to believe in this world anymore.”

“Believe,” Castiel said, “in your soul. And no matter what you do, never, ever sell it.” He patted her shoulder clumsily, then rose up. “I must continue the fight.”

Claire lifted her head. “Good luck.”

Castiel smiled, and he almost looked like Dad. “Thank you.”

Then he was gone.

The next day, Claire was horrified when she opened her history textbook and a copy of the test fell out, with all the right answers filled in. There was a note on the back.

 _Sorry_. It was signed, _Rachel_.

Claire set the test on fire in the garbage can in the boys’ bathroom, and the test was canceled in the ensuing fire drill, and Claire didn’t even care.


	19. Chapter 19

Part IV

Lawrence, Kansas. Meg had been there before, on a cold November night in 1983, while her so-called father put in motion his plan for demon-kind to rule the earth. A plan within a plan: Sam Winchester, the Boy King, and if not the Boy King then the vessel for Lucifer himself, true King of the Earth. Meg didn’t have any particular attachment to the place, and she was enjoying lounging on a beach in Florida while she and Benny looked for signs of demonic presence, so she was surprised when it looked like she’d have to return to the scene of the crime. 

Any place there were casinos was an easy bet for demonic omens, but Meg didn’t want to go to Vegas because it was too close to Utah. Atlantic City was too close to Boston, and there was no point in leading any of Ava’s other minions to Claire. Iowa wasn’t an option either since it was so close to Omaha. Meg also had no desire to hit any of the rural casinos on tribal land. After all, between their behavior at the sleep clinic and again at the casinos in Council Bluffs, they were probably wanted on at least some level. Meg’s monitoring of the news – from her phone, while she stretched out on a towel beneath a massive shady umbrella with nothing but miles of white sand all around – revealed little mention of the CDC presence in Omaha and only a brief blurb about a burglary and possible kidnapping attempt of a young nurse in North Omaha. Police were looking for any information about a caucasian couple in their early thirties, descriptions matching Meg and Benny and any number of other people as well.

The one wrinkle in Meg and Benny traveling incognito was the camera footage from the sleep tests. A phone call to Claire and her secret computer minion meant the footage had all been mysteriously erased – and from the casino cameras, too. Meg had called in to the Omaha PD, posing as an Iowa Gaming Commission agent who was looking into a couple of similar description who might have pulled a scam at a casino in Council Bluffs around the same time as the burglary incident in Omaha. The grumpy police detective on the other end of the line said he had nothing and the trail had gone pretty cold, and agencies from other states were not being very cooperative.

There was one other mildly interesting blip on the news. Wales, Utah. For the first time in the history of the town, a resident was missing and presumed dead. Walt Jones, a young college student, had missed several days of classes and work. His home was empty and showed no signs of being broken into, but it also showed no signs of him packing and leaving as his homework, half-finished, was still on the dining table. The residents of Wales, Utah were offering a meager reward for anyone who had information about their beloved young neighbor.

No one suspected a caucasian couple in their early thirties of being involved in the disappearance.

Meg hummed happily to herself, clicked her phone into sleep mode, and closed her eyes, lay back.

Benny was hunched over in a beach chair beneath the same umbrella. He was wearing shorts and a t-shirt as a concession to the weather and fitting in, but his pale skin and the copious amounts of sunscreen he had to wear prevented people from looking at him and his grumpiness too askance. He had the laptop open on one knee and the tablet awake on the other, and he was switching back and forth between them with an intensity that would have made Dean Winchester call him a nerd.

“I think I got something,” he said.

“What kind of something?”

“Demonic omens in Lawrence, Kansas. Think that’s too close to Lebanon?” Benny asked.

Meg groaned. “Actual demonic omens, or teenagers being stupid? Urban legend has it that there’s a devil’s gate at Stull Cemetery outside the town,” she said. “But no one has tried – or seems to know how to – open the gate there.”

Benny made a thoughtful noise, tapped at the tablet. “The two cities are only about an hour apart. You think those hunters will still be there?”

“I think after we got done with them, Johnny Boy got a sound lecture and probably a beating for being a softy with monsters, and then they got the hell out of dodge,” Meg said. “So we should be safe. Omens?”

Benny listed them off quietly. Cattle deaths. Lightning storms. Unfortunately, nothing the people of Lawrence hadn’t dealt with before.

It was Meg’s turn to make a thoughtful humming noise. “Any signs of crossroads demons?” Crowley liked them best, and since he’d once been their boss, they mostly remained loyal to him. “Any sudden influx of popularity or prosperity for anyone in the town?”

“No,” Benny said. “No lottery winners, no unlikely marriages –”

“Unlikely marriages?”

“A ten and a two,” Benny said.

Meg huffed. “So cynical. People don’t have to be in the same league appearance-wise to love each other.”

“Humans are shallow. It’s part of the programming,” Benny said. “Still. Nothing except – you have got to be joking.”

Meg opened her eyes, sat up halfway. “What?”

Benny flipped the tablet around for her to see.

Meg flopped back with a groan. “Unbelievable.”

“Why are _you_ surprised? You always talk about fangirls,” Benny said. He still sounded shocked. “And in the one book, there was that one gathering –”

“The First Annual _Supernatural_ Convention,” Meg said. “Annual. Which one is this?”

“The, um, sixth.”

“And who’s running it? Becky Rosen?”

“No mention of her. Two fellas, I think. Damian and –”

“Barnes. Right.” Meg heaved herself up into a sitting position. “I bet that’s why demonic omens are circling. Crazy little fans are probably poking at real hoodoo. Pack up. Let’s drive.”

“Glory hallelujah,” Benny said. He snapped the laptop shut and scooped it and the tablet into his backpack. He tugged on his cap and made a beeline for the car.

“Yeah, no, don’t help me or anything,” Meg called after him. When there was no response, she hauled herself to her feet.

Fifteen minutes later she was out of beach lounging attire and back in proper hunting gear. She ditched the umbrella and the towels, because those weren’t useful in the long run. Benny was fully dressed and leaning against the driver’s side door when Meg arrived in the parking lot.

“I’m driving,” he said.

“My turn,” she shot back.

Benny pursed his lips, eyed her up and down. Then he held out one fist. “I’ll play you for it.”

Meg raised her eyebrow. “What?”

“Rock paper scissors. Come on.”

They played. She won, rock to scissors.

“Two out of three,” Benny said. He prevailed, paper over rock. Round three ensued. He groaned when he lost.

Meg shook her head condescendingly and said, “Always with the scissors, Dean.” She fished the keys out of his pocket, bumped him aside with her hip, and climbed into the driver’s seat.

Benny was still grumbling as he slid into the passenger seat. “What do you want to listen to today?”

“No music yet,” Meg said. “Fire up my phone and hit the fan forums. Find out what they’re saying about the convention. See if you can’t get a sense of how many people are registered, what kind of weird games – like LARPing – they might be playing. Also, see if there are any fans who might be more interested in the darker side of things and might have, I don’t know, attempted to conjure a crossroads demon.”

“Where do I start?” Benny asked.

“A place called Livejournal. I should already be logged in. My username is Dark_Thorny.” Meg grinned.

Benny hmphed. “Original. That’s what Cas called you, you know.”

“He was still crazy in Purgatory?”

“He saned up some,” Benny said. “But once or twice, he mentioned you to Dean.” He tapped at the phone screen, squinted. “Okay. Livejournal. Where to next?”

“Click on my user profile, find one of the _Supernatural_ fan communities,” Meg said.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you were narcissistic,” Benny murmured, mostly to himself.

Meg ignored the comment, because he was right. At first, she had been very interested in what fans had to say about her. 

“Hmmm. Okay. Official community for the annual convention. Dates. Times. Panelists.”

“Check the comments.”

“There are...factions. Canon only. Canon through first continuation. Canon through second continuation. No one seems able to agree what does and doesn’t count as canon. Some factions are recommending...boycotting other fans who show up dressed up as non-canon characters. Also, there are something called ship wars. Apparently the Destiel fans are pretty angry at the Megstiel and Denny fans.” Benny lifted his head, cast Meg a puzzled look. “Pretty much all of Sam and Dean’s lives have been onshore, except for that time I took Dean on the boat. Is this like a _Star Wars_ thing? _Supernatural_ wars on...ghost ships? I don’t recognize those two angel names.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “Did you not listen to anything I told you in Purgatory? Ship is short for relationship. And those aren’t angels, those are ship names. Dean and Castiel is –”

“Oh. So Megstiel is –”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s at least accurate. But then Denny –”

“I told you, there were fangirls for everything,” Meg said. 

Benny blinked at her phone like it was an alien entity in his hand. After several moments, he recovered. “So, will there be people there dressed up like me?”

“And maybe even me. Or me in my previous meatsuit.” Meg shrugged.

“Oh. Will that blow our cover?”

Meg snorted. “Please. If Sam and Dean get mistaken for LARPers, no one’s going to blink twice at us.”

“Okay, then.” Benny sounded faint, stunned.

Meg said, “Keep looking. Anyone heavily into the demon faction and mojo?”

“Sorry. Yes. Looking, looking.”

Meg said, “Give me your phone. We can listen to some of your truly distressing rockabilly.”

“Thanks,” Benny said, smiling faintly at her, and he resumed searching.

The best thing about being a demon and a vampire on a road trip was that neither of them needed to sleep. Benny, who was fed up with the sheer amount of money they spent on sunscreen, tended to huddle in the back seat under his coat and sleep during the day, so Meg took that time to drive. What would have been a two-day journey was cut down to a mere twenty-five hours of driving because sleep wasn’t a necessity. When they crossed the state line in Georgia, Meg hustled Benny out of the car for a selfie in front of the “Welcome to Georgia” sign. She emailed it to Claire with a note that they had a lead on a demon for the final ingredient, and she hoped Claire’s midterm paper was coming along all right. Benny would have been pleased, what with his constant nagging at her to be nice. When they stopped for gas outside Atlanta, Meg insisted on trying some Georgia peaches. 

She badgered Benny into another selfie in front of the “Welcome to Tennessee” sign, and in Nashville she bought him a signed Elvis record from a dubious memorabilia shop with the promise that Dean had a record player at the Men of Letters Bunker. In Missouri, Meg took another state sign selfie - Benny declined to participate in this one, because what they were doing was supposed to be secret, and wasn’t she always the one who said the internet was forever? Meg fired off the image to Claire in a text message. Claire better have some text on that demon-killing spell for her, and also ingredients for the demon-bomb (or maybe the one Kevin got from the demon tablet; that would also be nice just to know for future reference).

In Kansas City, they headed for an occult shop one of Claire’s contacts recommended. Benny pushed open the door of the dingy little building, held it open for Meg. The store was tucked between a smoke shop and a convenience store that was more porn-tastic than convenient. The store had the appropriate symbol painted on the window, so Meg trusted Claire’s contact’s judgment, for now.

Meg made a beeline for the back counter, list in hand.

The girl at the counter had smooth dark skin, glossy black hair in punky pigtails, and broad features, wide cheekbones. She was reading what looked like a physics textbook and wore a supremely bored expression. Benny hung back, browsing the narrow aisles idly.

“Hi,” Meg said, “I’m looking for –”

The girl lifted a hand without lifting her head. “Look, I get that this is one of the last stops in civilization before you get to Lawrence, but if you’re LARPing, I’m exercising my right to refuse service. What is it you want?”

Meg rattled off the ingredients.

The girl’s head came up sharply. She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t sell to witches, either.”

“Not a witch,” Meg said. “Just need to deal with a demon.”

The girl eyed Meg up and down, eyed Benny in turn. “Yeah, I’ve already seen a dozen of your kind roll through here. Benny the vampire, right? And who are you, Andrea?”

Benny’s head whipped around at the sound of his lost love’s name.

“Hi, both human here,” Meg said through gritted teeth. “Just on a hunt.”

The girl arched an eyebrow, skeptical and amused. “You kids can’t fool me. I’ve seen the costume before – fisherman’s cap, pea coat. Yours is pretty good, though. Your little lady sew it for you?”

“I’m not his _little lady_.” Meg took a deep breath. “Please. I need these ingredients and we’ll be on our way. Money isn’t an object.”

“Obviously not, when you’re taking off work in the middle of the week for that fantastic nonsense.” The girl lifted her chin, daring Meg to challenge her opinion.

“A friend of a friend recommended this place,” Meg said, forcing herself to remain calm.

“Oh yeah? What’s your friend’s name?”

“My friend likes to remain anonymous,” Meg said, wracking her brains. Did Claire have some kind of hunter handle? Her online handle wouldn’t have gone over well with any real hunters. She looked the clerk up and down, and then she saw, on the girl’s punk jacket, amid anarchy symbol buttons and badges, an anti-possession symbol. “My friend embroiders denim patches like that one you have there on your jacket.”

The girl looked down at herself. She brushed her fingertips over the red embroidery. “Oh yeah?” Some of the tension left her shoulders. “What was that list again?”

Meg recited it to her once more.

The girl nodded and turned away. “I’ll see what I can find. How much do you need?”

Meg requested triple portions of what she needed to make three bombs, one for her, one for Benny, and a spare just in case.

Benny came to stand beside Meg. In a low, tight voice he asked, “Will there be girls there dressed up as Andrea?”

“I don’t know,” Meg said, just as softly. “Maybe. Kevin didn’t really describe her thoroughly. They probably won’t even look like her. Not enough for it to –”

To hurt.

Benny nodded and stepped back.

The girl returned with a cookie sheet laden with little plastic tubs and set it on the counter. She also set a brass scale on the counter, which looked suspiciously like the kind drug dealers used, and opened the first tub. “How much?”

Just to throw off a particularly persistent tracker, Meg asked for additional portions of ingredients that she could use in other hex bags and spells. She beckoned to Benny, who slid forward to help, hesitant. They’d bought a box of plastic ziplock bags to store all the ingredients safely before mixing, which Benny produced from somewhere in his coat.

It took a good half an hour to assemble all the ingredients, and then Meg shelled out the last of their major cash to pay for the ingredients. She’d pick a few pockets to keep them afloat.

“Those are some pretty serious ingredients,” the girl said.

“We’re on a serious job,” Meg replied.

The girl nodded, grudging respect in her eyes. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Benny said. He gathered the plastic bags into his backpack. Meg remembered to wave before they left the store.

Back at the car, Benny took a deep breath.

Meg dangled the keys at him. “Want to take a turn at the wheel?”

“No.” He shook his head, as if to clear it. “I need some time to think.” He yanked open the door and slid into the passenger seat.

Meg, out of an abundance of the kindness Benny kept nagging into her, put on some of that Norah Jones he liked so much. “Will you be okay? Do you need to sit this one out?” She could take a low-level red-eyed demon on her own.

Benny laughed shakily. “I don’t know how Dean didn’t just start swinging when he got into the middle of all that mess at that convention.”

“Sam was kidnapped and tricked into marriage by a crazy fan,” Meg said. “Dean got off easy.”

Benny’s second burst of laughter was steadier, more genuine. “Really? Big bad Sam?”

“Demon magic,” Meg said. “It takes all kinds, and they ask for all kinds.”

“No wonder you were concerned about fans poking in demon mojo.” Benny shook his head in disbelief. “Sam’s basically been a puppet his entire life, hasn’t he? It’s a wonder _he_ doesn’t come out swinging.”

“He’s too nice for that,” Meg said dryly. 


	20. Chapter 20

Lawrence, Kansas was much bigger than Meg had expected, especially given the sales clerk’s comments back in Kansas City about how it was the last stop in civilization before Lawrence. The streets were neatly-kept, tree-lined, and the main streets were bustling with traffic and business. There were signs for two universities – the University of Kansas and the Haskell Nation University.

Granted, Meg hadn’t been there for three decades. She shouldn’t have been surprised that it wasn’t how she remembered, given that she’d blinked in in the middle of the night, watched a house fire erupt, and then left, marking Sam Winchester in Azazel’s Book of the Damned, his grotesque parody of the Book of Life. She gazed out the windows, curious, as Benny drove.

“It’s being held at the university convention center,” Benny said as he guided the car through the town. “Apparently they plan on using the entire campus for a LARP game.”

“Of course they are.” Meg fished her phone out of her pocket, checked it. No word from Claire, who was probably neck-deep in finals and freaking out.

“We should get a motel room,” Benny said.

“After we register for the convention and scout the joint,” Meg said. “Registration and the mixer is tonight, right? Real festivities start tomorrow. Or we could be real hunters and, you know, sleep in the car.”

“What if a demon notices us?” 

“We still have our mini hex bags,” Meg said. “They didn’t work in the dream realm, but they ought to have retained their potency here.”

“Should we look up a campus map?” Benny asked.

“No,” Meg said. “We should roam, get a feel for the place. See if we sense anything.”

They parked in visitor parking on the south end of the campus and stepped out of their car, stared at the array of pale buildings with red roofs. 

“Maybe we should look at a map,” Benny said, reaching into his jacket for his phone.

“Nope. Let’s march.” Meg tugged on her jacket and backpack full of hunting supplies, so Benny shrugged and did the same. They locked the car, and Meg scanned her surroundings for a landmark so she could blink them back in an instant if she needed to. Then they set off. At first they skirted the buildings, keeping to the paved paths. It was late, and most of the buildings were dark and deserted, but windows were lit here and there. The students tended to stay off the manicured lawns, walking in pairs or chattering clumps or striding along alone, lost in the worlds of their iPods and cell phones. Benny and Meg didn’t stand out as badly as they’d have thought, though they were still markedly older than most of the kids wandering around.

Benny began whistling idly to himself, always the “In the Hall of the Mountain King,” and a few heads turned as he passed. Meg let the music fade into the background, scanning her surroundings with a different purpose.

“Smell any sulfur?” she asked.

“Besides you?”

“I don’t smell like sulfur right now.”

“You smell like baby bones and fern right now.”

“Spike,” Meg said with exaggerated patience.

“Anya,” he replied in the same tone.

She cast him a look.

“Nothing so far,” Benny said obligingly. “Campus is pretty, though. Think this is where Sam and Dean would have gone?”

“Never really considered it,” Meg said, which was a lie, because she’d read more than her fair share of college AUs.

“If the books are right, Sam’s a damn smart kid. Dean, too, in his own way. Not sure he was the college type.” Benny resumed whistling.

“Maybe he would have been, if he hadn’t been ragingly parentified.”

Benny interrupted his own whistled song to laugh. “Apparently you have considered.”

“I consider many things,” Meg said. “What if Mary Winchester hadn’t made that deal in 1973? What if she’d defeated Azazel? What if Sam had shot John? What if? What if? There are too many what if’s. Like I said, there’s really only one thing that matters in my existence, and it’s my cause. And my cause is not contemplating all the ways Sam and Dean’s lives might have been normal.”

Benny resumed whistling.

“That sounds pleasant and all,” Meg said, “but I’m pretty sure a serial killer in a movie whistled that same song.” She paused. “Huhn. Maybe that’s why I think it sounds pleasant.”

“You think serial killers are pleasant?”

“Hi, I’m Meg,” she began.

He clapped a hand over her mouth.

She bit him.

He yelped and withdrew. Several passersby looked at them askance. They traded looks and stifled laughter, then resumed their inspection of the campus. After an hour, Benny said, “Let me find a campus map.”

“No need,” a girl said.

Meg and Benny turned in unison, going for their weapons. And stared at the two college-age girls who stood before them. One wore a familiar tan overcoat, dark suit, button down white shirt, and blue tie. She’d dyed her hair dark and cut it short for the occasion. The other had short, dark blond hair, a familiar leather jacket, amulet, worn blue jeans, and boots.

“You’re here for the convention, right?” the Dean Girl asked.

Meg couldn’t help the expression of unholy glee that crossed her face. “Absolutely right. Castiel. Dean.”

Benny made an incoherent noise of disbelief.

“Who are you?” the Castiel Girl asked.

“Obviously,” said the Dean Girl, “they’re Benny and –”

“Meg.” She smiled, teeth gleaming.

Castiel Girl raised her eyebrows. “Huhn. That’s not how I pictured Meg.”

“I’m Meg 2.0,” she said. “So done with the blonde thing.”

“Crowley bleached her hair in ‘Goodbye Stranger,’” Castiel Girl said. 

“And Meg wasn’t too pleased about it. If she’d had her druthers, she’d have left her hair as it was. Natural, of course.” Meg winked.

“What are your real names?” Dean Girl asked.

“I’m Rachel,” Meg said, lying through her teeth. “This is my cousin, Ty.”

“Awesome!” Dean Girl said. “I’m Stephanie. And this is my roommate, Leanne.”

Meg grinned at them. “So, you doing the Destiel thing?”

“Nope. We don’t hate on the ship, obviously, but it’s not our thing.” Stephanie shrugged. “We overheard your conversation. I couldn’t help but notice – Ty. Your accent is amazing.”

“Thanks,” Benny said flatly.

“It’s his real accent,” Meg said. “He’s not much of a fan, but I told him I needed a big strong man to protect me, and along he came.”

Benny hunched his shoulders, ducked his head, looking uncomfortable.

“That’s really nice of you, Ty,” Leanne said, smiling up at him. “So, you heading over to the convention center to register?”

“That’s the plan,” Meg said. She looked Leanne up and down. “So, you into Megstiel?”

Benny rolled his eyes. “Stop scaring the children.”

“Not scaring any children,” Meg said. “Just being friendly with a fellow fan.” She smiled, a little too sweetly to be nice, at Leanne. “Right?”

“Yeah,” Leanne said, unbothered. “The convention center is this way.” She turned and headed down another path, and Meg fell into step beside her. Benny and Stephanie walked behind them in awkward silence.

“So,” Leanne said, “what made you pick that costume to represent Meg?”

She looked down at herself. “Why not? It’s what Meg would wear. Dark leather jacket with space for weapons, dark jeans that are stylish but also functional.”

“It doesn’t really scream...demon.” Leanne shrugged apologetically.

“Well, Meg is just a name that stuck after the previous body,” Meg said. “Demons as a general rule possess humans, so I guess that’s the danger of a demon, isn’t it? They could be anyone.”

“True.” Leanne glanced over her shoulder. “Ty’s costume is pretty awesome. The accent is what seals it, though.”

“Hear that, Ty?” Meg called out. “Your costume is awesome. You owe me one.” 

His response was an annoyed grunt. He’d suggested changing into Winchester-style hunting gear in an attempt to blend in. She’d shot him down.

Leanne tugged open her tan overcoat to reveal a plastic silver cylinder that, if one squinted a little, could have been an angel blade. “I ordered mine online. What are you packing?”

“Not one of those,” Meg said, “though I wouldn’t mind having one. I’d have to tussle with an angel to get one.”

“Or kiss one,” Leanne pointed out.

“That was a one-time deal.” Meg eyed Leanne up and down. Was she flirting? It was hard to tell. “So, what events are you looking forward to the most?”

“The LARP is fun every year,” Leanne said. “They didn’t go quite as all-out as they did at the first con, what with the crazy special effects and hiring actors to play Sam and Dean, but they’re always pretty good.”

“It was pretty smart of the publishing house,” Stephanie piped up, “to tie the first convention into the series continuation. Pretty genius. And since Carver Edlund was there, he experienced all the details firsthand.”

“That was one of the best publicity stunts ever,” Leanne agreed.

Meg glanced over her shoulder at Benny, who looked pained at the notion of LARPing. 

“The cosplay contest is always fun,” Stephanie said. “Also, the karaoke is good times. But we’re holding out for the quiz bowl.”

Meg raised her eyebrows. “Quiz bowl?”

Leanne nodded. “Yeah. _Supernatural_ Trivia Quiz Bowl. Grand prize is something super special. Runner-up gets two hundred dollars.”

Meg glanced over her shoulder again. “What do you say, cousin? Think we’d have a shot at a quiz bowl?”

“You more than me,” he said. “I couldn’t even guess how many times you’ve read all those books.”

“I’m presenting at one of the panels,” Leanne said. “About how Carver Edlund drew on the _Book of Enoch_ in constructing his angelology. Stephanie’s presenting on how Dean was parentified.”

“Both very interesting and appropriate topics,” Meg said, and she was impressed at the dedication both girls had to their obsession. A good demon could take that kind of dedication and turn it into something darker, twisted. Like drugging and tricking a man into marriage.

The convention center was one of the massive pale buildings with a dark red roof on the eastern edge of campus. The banner over the door proclaimed the Sixth Annual _Supernatural_ Convention. A host of young people – mostly girls – in hunter-esque flannel and army surplus gear lingered near the doors. Some others were dressed like Castiel, and even fewer others were dressed as Crowley in dark suits, wore yellow contact lenses, or dressed as various monsters from the original books, like the woman in white, Bloody Mary, the Hook Man, and the scarecrow. One girl wore a sleek little black dress and red contact lenses. Best as Meg could tell from a cursory prod with her senses, none were demons.

The interior of the convention center was well lit, with sleek, unobtrusive carpets and stalls lining the walls. One vendor was selling replicas of Mary Winchester’s hunter charm bracelet. Another vendor sold replicas of the Colt, angel blades, and Ruby’s knife. Yet another vendor was selling familiar denim patches with all manner of protective sigils on them.

“Registration table’s that way,” Leanne said, pointing.

In the center of the room, two men, both dressed like hunters, one tall and slender, the other short and stocky, were keeping tabs on a cash box, sign-in sheets, and what looked like a raffle jar.

“Thanks a bunch,” Meg said. “Hopefully we’ll see you around.”

It was Leanne’s turn to wink. “Yeah. We’ll get our Megstiel on.” Then, with her voice gruff like she had strep, she said, “Let’s go, Dean.”

Stephanie waved, and the two of them plunged into a crowd of flannel and leather jackets.

Meg stepped up to the table and had to tug Benny with her. “Hey,” she said, “we didn’t have a chance to buy tickets online. Got really late notice of the event. We were out of range of civilization for longer than we’d have liked.” She flashed the tall one, Barnes, a smile.

“No problem,” he said. “We have enough tickets left for you and your –”

“Cousin,” Meg said. She elbowed Benny. He smiled weakly.

Barnes looked him up and down, whistled. “That’s the best Benny get-up I’ve seen all night.” Then he eyed Meg. “Wo are you supposed to be?”

“A demon,” she said. 

“Oh.” His disappointment was obvious. After all that juicy Meg fanfiction out there, was this the response she was going to get all convention long?

“Figured it was a little too dark to be wearing the black contacts,” Meg said. “I’ll put them in tomorrow.”

Benny cast her a warning look. She ignored him.

“Right on,” Barnes said. “Good call. I’ve seen a couple of Megs and Rubys walk into stuff tonight. That’ll be a hundred bucks for the pair of you.”

Meg forked over the money without blinking.

Barnes handed them both convention passes and programs. “There’s a breakfast panel tomorrow with a question-and-answer session for a rep from the publishing house, Becky Rosen, and a couple of people who met Carver Edlund at the first convention. After that, panels happen on the hour every other hour. Between the panels are the elimination rounds for the Quiz Bowl. Sign up in teams of four.”

Meg scanned the sign-in sheets. “Sign up over here?”

Barnes nodded. “There’s a sheet for teams of four and also anyone else less than four willing to be combined into teams. Check back here tomorrow morning after the breakfast panel for your team assignments.”

Benny scanned their surroundings, winced when he spotted two boys, one dressed as him, one dressed as Dean, standing close. Romantically close. “Quite the set-up you got here. Must take a lot to run it.”

“We’ve had a great team this year,” Barnes said. He lit up. “Cool accent!”

The growl that rose in the back of Benny’s throat was inaudible to most human ears. Meg’s ears were, luckily, demon-enhanced.

“Thanks,” Benny muttered.

“If you have any questions and can’t find me or Damian, feel free to ask Alex or Sharon or anyone else wearing a staff badge.” Barnes pointed to another table where two girls, one short and mousy-haired, the other tall and blonde, were guarding what looked like a collector’s edition of the original _Supernatural_ books. The short girl was reading something on an ebook reader while the tall girl was poking at her smart phone.

“Awesome.” Meg reached out, scrawled her and Benny’s aliases on the quiz bowl sign-up list, and flashed Barnes another smile. Then she turned, pocketing the programs with one hand and catching Benny’s elbow with the other, and dragged him over to the vendor table where some of Claire’s patches were being sold.

According to the vendor sign, Patches by Clairestiel were designed and hand-stitched by a dedicated fan and being sold for five dollars a patch, eighteen for four patches. There were anti-possession charms, angel banishing sigils, devil’s traps, symbols from all the major religions of the world and a few minor ones, and then a whole host of actual anti-demon and anti-angel Enochian wards.

Meg was impressed at Claire’s fluency in Enochian. A talent left over from her stint as Clairestiel, perhaps? She smiled at the brown-haired girl behind the counter who was avidly devouring a paperback copy of “Bad Day at Black Rock.” “Are you Clairestiel? These are really impressive.”

The girl lifted her head, and Meg immediately recognized the demon behind her eyes. “Ah, no,” the girl said. “I’m just the merchant. Someone else makes them. I sell them.” Meg knew the girl behind the glasses and deliberately scruffy hair.

“What’s your name?”

“Abby.” She pushed her glasses up her nose. They glinted with an unusual sheen. Ah. Bathed in holy fire. Could detect hellhounds.

“I’m Rachel.” Meg offered a brief, polite smile.

“Hi, Rachel.” She had the faintest tinge of an upper-crust British accent in her voice. “So, who are you supposed to be?”

“Oh, you know,” Meg said, “just a regular old demon.”

“You look like an ordinary human.”

“As do most demons.”

“That’s not much fun.”

“Black eyes at night are an injury waiting to happen,” Meg said.

Abby winced sympathetically. “Indeed. And Benny the vampire, I presume?”

“Yes ma’am,” he said.

“Your accent is truly delightful.” Abby smiled up at him.

“So I’ve heard. Yours isn’t so bad, either.” He didn’t sound annoyed for once.

Abby cleared her throat. “Oh. I’ve been stateside so long, most people don’t even notice. They think I’m from Canada or something. But thank you. Any patches you’re particularly interested in?”

“Not sure yet,” Meg said. “There are so many to choose from.” She reached out, fingered an anti-angel ward. It wasn’t very effective on its own, but with two or six others, it would make the wearer invisible to any angel and any prayers inaudible. “How does Clairestiel design these?”

“I think some of them she looked up in the Key of Solomon,” Abby said, nodding at some of the devil’s traps. “The others...I don’t know. Just artistic flair, I guess. Like the Hunter’s Marks from _The Mortal Instruments_ series, you know?”

Meg hummed vague agreement, though she didn’t know anything about any mortal instruments. “I’ll have to think about it,” she said. “You want any?” she asked Benny.

“I wouldn’t even know where to begin,” he said, unnerved by Meg and Abby’s sudden focus on him.

Abby pushed her glasses higher up her nose. “Well, the anti-possession and devil’s traps are always the best place to start. Maybe the angel-banishing sigil as more of a reference tool. I could cut you a deal, three for ten.”

Benny glanced at Meg and then, with challenge in his eyes, said, “Deal.” He fished a ten out of his wallet.

Abby wrapped the patches in tissue paper, tucked them into a paper bag with twine handles, and deposited the cash in a little cash box. “Enjoy,” she said.

“I will.”

“It was nice meeting you, Abby,” Meg said. “We’ll probably be back for more.”

“Thanks,” said Abby. “It was nice meeting you, too.”

Benny said to Meg, “Where next?”

“I want to look at the replicas of Ruby’s knife.” Meg tugged on his sleeve. That booth was about as far from the Clairestiel patch booth as they could get.

She and Benny hung back from the crowd of shoppers so as to avoid being reeled in with a sales pitch. “Found her,” Meg said.

“Already?” Benny glanced over his shoulder. “Who?”

“Abby,” Meg said.

Benny’s brow furrowed. “Abby? Why would she sell anti-demon protection?” He darted a glance at her out of the corner of his eye.

“That’s an excellent question, isn’t it?” Meg said. “We’d better keep scouting around, check for any back up she might have.”

“Weren’t those the patches Claire makes? Claire’s working with a demon?”

Meg raised her eyebrows at him. “And?”

“Well, fine, she’s working with you, but you and she have a vested interest in a common goal.” Benny rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “What if Abby is a demon like you? Claire would probably be mad if we killed another one of her friends.”

“Then let’s find out if she’s a friend,” Meg said. She dug her cell phone out of her pocket. “Outside.”

They passed what looked like a crowd of Sams as they stepped into the chilly October night. They ducked around the corner for privacy, Benny keeping watch with his epic vampire senses while Meg made the call.

“What’s up, Holy Roller?”

“Just got done with marine fu.” Claire sounded winded. “How’s it going?”

“We’re at the _Supernatural_ convention. I saw some of your patches on sale.”

“I feel like I’m selling out, but fans pay way more than hunters ever would. Getting actual cash out of them is a nightmare.” Claire’s voice was mixed in with the sounds of traffic. Was she walking home? “Besides, the fans have some real protection now.”

The traffic turned into crowds of people. She was headed for a metro station.

“How did you arrange for someone to be in your place?” Meg asked.

“A fan from LJ who liked my Etsy store and Tumblr account,” Claire said. “Her name’s Abby. Online handle’s English Rose. She’s kinda new to the fandom, but pretty nice. Why?”

“Met her. Was curious. So she’s read your blog?”

“Yeah. That’s how we became friends,” Claire said. “She’s new at the fanfic thing and had questions about writing back-story for an otherwise minor character. Her character of choice is Bela Talbot.”

“Of course it is,” Meg muttered.

“What does that mean?” Claire’s voice was staticky; she was probably underground.

“She _is_ Bela Talbot,” Meg said.

“ _What?_ ”

“What did you think became of people who sold their souls to demons? That they went to Heaven?” Meg sighed. “She probably read your blog and realized, like me, that you’re the real deal. Did you contact her or did she contact you first?”

“She contacted me first.” Claire’s voice was faint, though whether that was from poor signal or shock Meg couldn’t tell.

“Did she ever ask you questions about KTAP?”

“...Yes.”

“All right.” Damn, damn, double damn, triple damn, all the multiple damns in the world. “We’ll get you your final ingredient.”

“Are you sure Abby’s...?”

“Abby is Bela’s real name.”

Benny cleared his throat warningly. Their privacy was about to be compromised.

“I have to go. We’ll handle this. Put up a few extra wards just to be safe.” Meg hung up and pocketed her phone. 

The group of Sams came careening around the corner, laughing wildly. Most of them sounded drunk.

“What’s the news?” Benny asked.

“Let’s wait for Abby,” Meg said. “Come on. We should find a motel room to crash in, and then we’ll come back when registration has ended. It’ll give us time to build our demon bombs.”

“And we’ll use them on her?”

“We’ll question her first,” Meg said. “On second thought, who needs a motel room? What we need is a storage locker.”

“Why a storage locker?” 

“Isolated, quiet. We can torture someone if need be. And it’s not like either of us need to sleep.”

Benny looked her up and down. “Your mind is a scary place.” Then he held up a hand. “And I swear, if you say, ‘hi, I’m Meg, I’m a demon’ one more time, I will –”

“Like Dean,” Meg said, “I trained under Alistair. Unlike Dean, I do whatever it takes to get what I want.”


	21. Chapter 21

The best thing about a college town was that people didn’t ask questions when college students did weird things. A couple of grad students looking for a place to stash a whole lot of their stuff so they could downsize in anticipation of a semester abroad could easily rent a storage unit in the middle of the night on the edge of town. A couple of engineering students buying supplies from a local hardware store to make a miniature trebuchet for a finals project were offered indulgent smiles and lots of help.

“Are we really building a trebuchet?” Benny asked after they left the craft store with some sides of leather and a leather-tooling kit.

“Nope,” Meg said, and proceeded to craft her own demon torture table, complete with demon bindings carved into the leather straps.

Benny sat on the camp chair in the corner, stumped.

“Make yourself useful,” Meg said. She nodded at her backpack. “There’s a notebook in there with instructions for making a demon bomb.”

Benny rifled around in her backpack and fished out the Lisa Frank unicorn notebook. He raised his eyebrows. “This yours?” He hadn’t seen the cover last time.

“Claire’s choice. She claims it was on sale. She’s a teenage girl, though.” Meg focused on carving the symbols into the leather just so. Alistair wanted his students to understand every aspect of torture, physical and psychological. Before they ever go to lay a finger on another soul, they spent decades cleaning and preparing his tools, and after that making tools of their own. A fine artist had to appreciate tools. Dean skipped the tool training because he was on an accelerated schedule. Apocalypse and whatnot.

Benny made himself comfortable on the freezing cement floor and sorted through the baggies of ingredients they’d bought in Kansas City. They were working by the light of an emergency storm lamp, the storage locker door locked down tight to keep them from prying eyes.

“Anyone who busts on in here will think we’ve got some drug distribution going on,” Benny said.

“Which is why we’re going to be quiet so no one busts on in here,” Meg said. “We’ll trade places once I get done with the leather. I’ll need your help.”

“For what?”

“Framing the table,” Meg said. “I bought nails but no hammer. Too noisy.”

“Then how can I help you frame?”

“Benny, you’re a vampire, supernaturally strong. Nails are like thumbtacks to you. Don’t play dumb with me.”

“Fine,” Benny said. He glanced at his watch. “Registration ends soon.”

Meg pursed her lips. “I’d rather have all this done before we try to take on Abby. We don’t know if she has back-up yet.”

Benny nodded. “Like you said, we don’t need to sleep.”

Meg pursed her lips thoughtfully. She said, “Take Trusty, stake out Abby. Pin the devil’s trap patch to a bag and put it over her head. She won’t be able to smoke out or use any of her demonic power. Bring her back here.”

Benny nodded. “Will do.”

“Don’t get caught.”

“I won’t. She thinks I’m human.”

Meg had yet to test how the buckles and straps on the rack would hold when Benny returned with a suspiciously human-sized bundle. The bundle squirmed and made muffled cries for help, but Benny’s vampire grip was implacable.

“Almost got caught by the night manager,” Benny said, and laid his cargo on the ground. He’d rolled Abby in a tarp to transport her, so they had to unroll her.

“You know what she isn’t?” Meg asked.

“What?” Benny looked confused at the question.

“A riddle wrapped inside an enigma wrapped in a taco.” Meg twitched the tarp aside with an efficient flick of her wrist, dumping Abby unceremoniously onto the cement floor.

Abby grunted in pain.

Benny looked at Meg; he thought she was crazy. He hadn’t caught the allusion, then. Maybe Meg ought to find the _Supernatural_ books on tape for the next time they took a long drive.

Together, they hoisted Abby onto the rack and strapped her down.

“It would be more efficient if we stripped her clothes off,” Meg said as Benny fastened the last buckle.

He snorted. “Yeah, and if someone walks in on that, they’ll put us away forever.”

“They can try. They couldn’t keep us and you know it.”

“That I do.” Benny nodded at Abby. “What now?”

Meg reached out, tugged off the black bag Benny had improvised with an old t-shirt. He’d pinned the devil’s trap patch onto the t-shirt to keep Abby from smoking out.

She stared at them, wide-eyed, afraid.

Meg reached out, tugged the gag aside. “Scream all you want,” she said. “I covered the walls in soundproofing charms.”

Abby looked around at the charms. Some were Enochian. Some were demonic. “Who are you? Why have you brought me here?” She writhed against her restraints. “Why have you done this?” She looked down at the tooling on the leather, and she sounded genuinely confused. 

“We just have a few questions for you, Bela.”

She shook her head. She sounded terrified. “No. My name’s Abby. I’m a history major from Kentucky State. My mum and dad are –”

“Dead, because you made a deal with a crossroads demon, who came for you and took you to Hell, and now you’re back topside and doing his dirty work,” Meg said.

Abby shook her head, more vehemently. “That’s not true! Who are you? Are you hunters? Hunters aren’t real. _Supernatural_ is fiction. Please, let me go.”

Meg reached up, unfastened her hex bag necklace, and set it aside. “Not hunters, Princess Di.”

Abby sank back, dawning realization replacing the fear in her eyes. “You’re a demon.”

“Which is how I know you’re one, and your real name.”

“Abby is my real name.”

“Funny how you kept that,” Meg said. “Most people don’t bother.”

“I always liked my name.” Abby lifted her chin. “I don’t think we’ve met, Stunt Demon Number Eighty-Seven.”

“No,” Meg agreed, “we’ve never met. But I know a whole lot about you.”

Abby eyed Benny. “Who’s your friend?”

“Go ahead,” Meg said. “Show her.”

Benny divested himself of his hex bag necklace and waited several beats. 

Confusion crossed Abby’s face once more. “A demon and a vampire? At a _Supernatural_ convention? Is this some kind of ego trip for you?”

“She is pretty egotistical,” Benny said.

Meg rolled her eyes. “Way to have my back.”

Confusion gave way to dawning realization once more. “Bloody hell,” Abby said. “You’re him. Really him. Benny the vampire.”

“Benny Lafitte,” he corrected. 

“You died.”

“You’ve read _Supernatural_. No one dies forever.” The corner of Benny’s mouth curved up in amusement. 

Abby eyed Meg up and down. “Then who are you? Ruby? Lilith?”

“Please,” Meg said. “I’m done with the following thing. I’d been a demon for millennia before Ruby ever figured out how to unlace her own corset. But enough about me. I want to know about you.” Meg reached into her pack and drew out her Purgatory axe. “How did you make it topside? Pull a favor for Crowley? Pull something else for Crowley?”

“I’m not a crossroads demon,” Abby said. Her eyes widened when she saw the axe. “And I wouldn’t touch Crowley with a ten foot pole.”

“And yet you got close enough to give him a pistol.” Meg snickered at her own unintentional innuendo. “You wouldn’t be manning a table at a _Supernatural_ convention if you were a crossroads demon. You’re up to something else. I want to know what it is.”

“Why should I tell you?”

“Because,” Meg said, “I apprenticed under Alistair, and if you don’t tell me of your own free will, you’ll tell me to make it stop hurting.”

“ _Meg_.” Abby shrank back involuntarily.

“That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.” Meg grinned.

Abby bit her lip. “Look, I don’t know much.”

“And why should I believe you?”

“I got myself smuggled out of hell,” Abby said. “Sharon helped me. In return I’m helping her get a promotion with Crowley. Once that’s done, I’m going my own way.”

“What’s Sharon’s brilliant plan to get a promotion?”

“Find the newest prophet,” Abby said.

“Does Crowley have the demon tablet?” Meg asked.

Abby shook her head. “I don’t know. No one knows where it is. Last we heard, the Winchesters had both tablets, but then everything went sideways in Heaven. If one is to believe the newest prophet, posing as a fanfiction author the same way Kevin Tran did, then the angel Gadreel had possession of both tablets before surrendering the angel tablet to Metatron. No further mention of the demon tablet has been made.”

“What do you know about the newest prophet?” Meg asked.

Abby bit her lip. “If I tell you – Sharon will know. She’ll think I betrayed her. She’ll give me to Crowley. I –”

“You will face worse with me for not giving up the information than whatever Crowley might do to you for keeping it to yourself.” Meg spun the Purgatory axe idly. “I saw you sitting there, reading the _Supernatural_ books. Crowley took me in hand-to-hand combat, but even when he was King of Hell, I could make him hurt in ways most demons could never dream of.”

“I really don’t know much,” Abby said. 

Meg twirled her axe again, hefted it, and Abby cringed.

Meg paused. “Let’s start small,” she said. “Benny, get the holy oil and the blowtorch.”

Benny fished around in his duffel bag for the holy oil cambion buster pack and a little propane blowtorch. When he produced these, Abby’s eyes went wide with terror.

Meg considered these for a moment, then said, “That’s a little bit overkill. But give me the oil.”

Benny put the cambion buster pack aside and handed her a vial of holy oil instead. Meg removed the cork stopper smoothly, aware of Abby’s gaze on her every second of the way, and then she reached out, grabbed one of Abby’s hands. Abby curled it into a fist.

Meg lifted her chin at Benny, who eyed her, annoyed at being made to play the thug, but he reached out and uncurled Abby’s fingers. Meg started with the pinky, dipped it into the vial of holy oil, and fired up the blowtorch.

“So, the newest prophet. What do you know?”

“Clairestiel!” Abby cried. “She’s the prophet.”

Benny was unimpressed. “She was alive when Kevin was prophet. Only one at at a time, if I recall. In fact, she was writing _before_ Kevin became a prophet. But if she’s still writing, then she isn’t dead, and how did Kevin become prophet?”

Abby cast him a scathing look that was still terrified around the edges. “I get that the Bible is popularly thought of as fiction these days, but there can be more than one prophet at a time. They fulfill different roles. Kevin Tran and those who follow him are the Keepers of The Word, translators. Clairestiel, whoever he or she really is, is a regular kind of prophet. The gospel-writing kind.”

“Kevin wrote his own share of the Winchester Gospels,” Benny said. “Try again.” He brought the blow torch to her finger.

Meg inhaled deeply. She’d missed the scent of burning skin, not because she liked it, but because it was the scent of Hell, of home. No, no demon liked being down there. But she remembered being there. Certainty and misery and all that.

Abby screamed and arched her back. Benny yanked the torch away instinctively and shut it off, darting a nervous glance at the storage locker door.

Meg was unconcerned, because she knew her soundproofing charms all too well. 

“I’m telling the truth!” Abby sobbed. “That’s all we know! We think Clairestiel is the prophet. It’s a long con. We make her trust us enough to meet in person or give up her location, and then we grab her.”

“Does Sharon know how to reach Clairestiel now?” Meg asked. She dipped another of Abby’s fingers in the holy oil.

Abby shook her head, trembling. “No. No. We wouldn’t be here if we knew how to reach her.” She blinked wet eyes up at Meg. “I know you hate Crowley. _I_ hate Crowley. I could be helpful, an ally. Please. Just –”

Meg looked at Benny. He shrugged. Meg plucked the blowtorch from his grasp and fired it up.

Abby shook her head. “No no no no, don’t, please don’t –” She closed her eyes and turned her head, and Meg lifted her head at Benny. He punched Abby in the head.

She went limp and unconscious in an instant.

“You’ve got a great left cross,” Meg said. “Excellent.” She turned the blowtorch off and set it aside. Then she loosed the leather restraints enough to roll Abby onto her stomach. She brushed Abby’s hair away from the nape of her neck.

“What are you doing?” Benny asked.

“Binding her soul inside her body. She can’t be exorcised, but she also can’t escape.” Meg unsheathed her knife and set to carving.

“Like you did to keep yourself inside Sam’s body in ‘Born Under a Bad Sign’? She’s read the books, too. She’ll figure it out.” Benny crossed his arms over his chest, skeptical.

“I’ll heal the binding link once I’m done so she doesn’t feel it. And also, Carver Edlund didn’t put everything in the books. Sam drinking demon blood? Didn’t come out till much later than it occurred in real life. Authorial censorship and all that. Not all my tricks are out there for the world to see. And besides, Crowley also knows spells to keep demons trapped in their meatsuits. Could be he taught it to Sharon, correct? Not to mention the extra added fun.” Meg finished the binding link and carved in another sigil.

“Extra added fun?” Benny echoed.

Meg waggled a little vial. “If she manages to smoke out, she lands here.” There was a symbol on it that matched the one she’d carved into the back of Abby’s neck. Then, with a zap of demon power, Abby was healed, sigils and fingers and all.

Meg rolled Abby onto her back and tightened the leather bindings. Then Meg splashed holy water across Abby’s face.

“Wake up!”

Abby returned to consciousness with a splutter, thrashing. “What did you do to me?” She wiggled her fingers instinctively.

“Abby, or Bela, or whatever you’re calling yourself these days,” Meg said. “I’ve decided to take you at your word. Ever since Alistair went the way of the dodo, the denizens of Hell have become progressively soft, now that waiting in a line endlessly is considered a form of torture. I can hardly expect you to stand up to real torture. Besides, the enemy of my enemy is my friend and whatever. Do you agree?”

Abby nodded. 

Meg smiled, pleasant and vicious all at once. “Here’s what you’re going to do: you’re going to go back to your hotel room, report some debauchery with Benny here to Sharon, and you’re going to act like nothing untoward happened. Then you’re going to help us capture Sharon.”

“Why debauchery with me?” Benny protested.

“Fine. Debauchery with me. Whatever.” Meg rolled her eyes. “But you’re going to help us catch Sharon, and maybe, if you’re very good, we’ll let you help us interrogate her.”

Abby nodded again.

“We’re going to let you go now,” Meg said. “And don’t try anything stupid, like running to Crowley.” 

Benny slid up to Abby, pure predation in his gaze. “Sam Winchester isn’t the only one who’s extra fun when he’s hopped up on demon blood.” He loosened her bonds slowly, holding her gaze the entire time. “So please, try something stupid. I kind of miss the high.”

Abby turned wide eyes toward Meg, who shrugged.

“He’s not lying,” Meg said. 

Abby hopped to her feet, dusted off her clothes reflexively. Benny lifted the rolling gate and pushed her out into the night.

“Thanks for the help. I know you have better things to do than help us move boxes. We really appreciate all you’re doing for us,” he called after her, and then he closed the gate. As soon as the gate was locked and the soundproofing charms reactivated, he turned to Meg. “Do you really trust her?”

“No, but I do trust that she hates Crowley,” Meg said, “and they are getting softer down there. Do I think she told us the whole truth? No. But we’ll know if she tries anything funny. Nice touch with the demon blood threat, by the way.”

“Your kind taste horrible, for the record,” Benny said. “So, are we bringing Sharon back here for round three?”

“If we grab Sharon right after we grabbed Abby, that’ll look suspicious. Let’s see what, if anything, Abby leads us to.” Meg shrugged on her jacket, stowed her weapons in her backpack, and waggled the vial. “This will let us know if she goes anywhere near the town’s border. Now, we need to rest up, get all refreshed for a day of pretending to be humans pretending to be ourselves.”

Benny tipped the torture rack further back and climbed onto it, tugged his cap down over his eyes. He was asleep in moments.

Meg used her telekinesis to flip off the light. Then she closed her eyes, one hand curled around the vial, and waited.


	22. Chapter 22

“Did you get anything?” Benny was slathering on sunscreen heavily just in case, even though they were going to be inside most of the time.

“Nothing,” Meg said. “We should head over to the convention and keep an eye on Sharon.”

“Anything you plan participating in besides the quiz bowl?” Benny asked. “So we fit in and all.”

“Maybe a few panels,” Meg said. “Our friend Abby is presenting on ‘Feminism and the Female Gaze in _Supernatural_ ’. I’m sure you’d be so very enlightened about the homoerotic subtext in the series.”

Benny bared his teeth at her in a scowl. 

She laughed. “Fine! Fine. I’ll stop beating a dead horse. Let’s go.”

They had to leave the storage locker quietly, but rather than trying to sneak past the office manager, Meg blinked them back to the car, and they drove to the campus once more. The guest parking lot had more ‘67 Chevy Impalas than any one Chevy dealer must have had in 1967, all of them black and gleaming and with various _Supernatural_ -related vanity plates.

“How no one caught onto them and their father after all these years driving around in one of those beasts remains a mystery to me,” Benny said, shaking his head. 

Meg chuckled. “They got wise for a hot minute and put Baby in a corner, but Dean couldn’t leave her for long. You know, I actually got to drive her once.”

“How did that go?”

“I crashed her.” 

Benny’s eyebrows flew up to his hairline. “And Dean didn’t kill you?”

Meg shrugged. “I was busy getting kidnapped by Crowley’s minions and he was busy riding some Dick down to Purgatory.”

“Right. You left that detail out last time.” Benny eyed the convention banner flapping over the door in the stiff autumn breeze. “Think that Abby-Bela girl will try to double-cross us?”

“Without a doubt,” Meg said. “She’s running something bigger than just hiding from Crowley and paying Sharon back for her coyote services.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Somehow she managed to either resurrect or replicate her original human body. It might explain why she uses her original name instead of her business alias.” Meg trotted up the steps to the convention center, Benny on her heels. “The longer a demon’s a demon, the less they remember about their former selves. For some demons, however, who they were as mortals might be something of a status symbol even after they make the transition. Being able to restore or replicate a demon’s original body – or for that matter, any body the demon so chooses – is a valuable trade secret.”

Benny nodded. “I can see that. Replicating a body with especially strong psychic gifts – would that be profitable to a demon?”

“Perhaps. Even more profitable would be, say, replicating Sam Winchester and then springing Lucifer from his cage, or replicating Dean or Adam and cutting a deal with the angels for some serious immunity.” Meg took a deep breath. “Bela might have found a way to jump-start the Apocalypse.”

“Third time’s the charm and all that,” Benny said. “Should we tell someone about this?”

Meg shook her head, let a smirk spread across her features. “No need. We’ll handle this ourselves. While I do think Abby will try to double-cross us, I don’t think she’ll succeed. I think she’ll double-cross Sharon too, though, and that would most likely play in our favor.”

“A demon in Omaha was trying to make a new Antichrist. This demon potentially has the means to jump-start the Apocalpyse: Round Three.” Benny looked at Meg askance. “Shouldn’t we be doing something more than...”

“Than restoring one third of the Team Free Will that averted the previous Apocalyptic episode?”

Benny considered this for a moment, and they stepped into the convention center. The crowds around the vendor booths were thin, but then there were panels going on.

“Do you want to go listen to the people who’ve met Carver Edlund in person?” Meg asked. She wondered if the breakfast offered at the panel was any good.

“I get that Castiel, Dean, and Sam averted the last Apocalypse,” Benny said, “but they’re not the same people. Dean and Sam don’t really trust each other, and Castiel – he’s made a lot of choices since then that make Dean not trust him much, either. Taking on the Apocalypse is a tough thing. Can they do it a second time?”

“We could pull a Season Seven _Buffy_ and recruit a bunch of hunter hopefuls, build our own army,” Meg said. She scanned the crowds of flannel-clad young women – and a few random young men – and wondered which ones would, if presented with appropriate evidence, roll with the punches and join in a massive hunt. “Maybe we don’t need the Winchesters after all.”

“Would we need Castiel?”

“Why would you say no to your own Full Throttle Angel?”

Benny scanned the room, nudged Meg when he spotted Abby at Clairestiel’s booth. She nodded in acknowledgment and scanned the crowd for Sharon.

Sharon was standing outside the double doors leading to the main lecture hall where the breakfast panel was going on, for gold pass holders only. Alex was at her elbow, armed with a clipboard and pen and checking the badge passes of everyone who came to the doors. Meg pursed her lips. How best to get Sharon alone? Meg and Benny were both armed with their human-seeming hex bags and the demon ichor special bombs. They could attack quickly. 

Meg nudged Benny, about to whisper so only his vampire ears could hear it, when Leanne called out.

“Rachel! Ty! Guess what?” She hurried across the room, grinning and beaming and utterly un-Castiel-like. She looked rather more like Jimmy, or perhaps that Misha person from Bizarro Earth (Meg still wasn’t entirely convinced that episode wasn’t fanfiction that sneaked under the radar). 

“Leanne! Hey.” Meg smiled, open and friendly.

Benny winced. Meg stomped on his ankle. He elbowed her in the ribs.

“What’s up?” Meg asked.

“Stephanie and I are your quiz bowl partners!” Leanne beamed. “Isn’t that so awesome? We need to think of a cool team name.”

“Benny and the Jets,” Meg said without missing a beat.

“I like it!” Leanne grinned up at Benny, fluttered her eyelashes. “What do you think? Ready to be captain of this ship?”

Meg swallowed down a gurgle of laughter at Benny’s very cornered expression.

“Sure,” he said, gamely attempting nonchalance. “I don’t think I’ll be doing our team much good, but I don’t mind helping out where I can.”

“Where’s Stephanie?” Meg asked.

Leanne pointed to where a cluster of Dean-esque figures were crowded around Abby’s booth.

Abby lifted her head, caught Meg’s gaze pointedly. Then she nodded briefly in Sharon’s direction.

Sharon and Alex were speaking to Damian, all of them wearing serious expressions. Getting Sharon alone just got even more difficult. 

“When does the quiz bowl start?” Meg asked.

“Right after this panel. Once that hall clears out, we take over,” Leanne said. She pointed at Sharon. “I think she’s in charge of it all. Only she knows what the super awesome grand prize is.”

“Not the boxed set of the original series?” Meg asked, remembering seeing Alex and Sharon guarding precisely that prize the night before.

Stephanie’s eyes lit up. “That would be awesome!”

Benny eyed Sharon, appraising and assessing. “How, exactly, does the whole quiz bowl thing work?”

Leanne wrinkled her nose; she was deliberately playing obtuse. She was two seconds from hanging off of Benny’s arm and feigning a dramatic swoon, wasn’t she? “Maybe we should ask one of the organizers. Maybe...Barnes?”

Meg nudged Benny. “Tall one. Crane your neck and search.”

Benny rolled his eyes. “I’m not really that tall. Have you ever stood next to Sam?”

Meg stared up at him, unamused. “Did you just complain about being not tall? Shut up and do your job.”

Benny had the gall to reach out and ruffle her hair like she was some kind of child. Leanne laughed, and Meg realized she must have been pouting. Finally Benny obliged her and searched the crowd. 

“Barnes is over there.” He pointed across the main floor.

“Let’s go,” Leanne said. She caught Benny by the wrist and tugged him. He was too startled to resist. Meg followed along, smirking to herself at his obvious discomfort. They found Barnes standing behind one of the empty vendor booths that was purporting to sell hunter gear. He was in deep conversation with a man who looked like a genuine hunter. Not a costume-clad youth but an older, tired, gritty man who had seen real action. He and Barnes were engrossed in a heated argument, with much gesticulation and angry frowns.

“Take it or leave it,” Barnes said. “It’s not as easy to come by as you think. Not all of us are petty criminals.”

The hunter bared his teeth in a snarl. 

Leanne, who’d looked delighted, paused and drew up short, glancing between the two men in alarm.

“You calling me a petty criminal?” the hunter demanded.

Barnes shook his head, sighed. “That’s not what I meant. What I meant is that I come by my supplies legitimately, and that makes my product more secure, but also more expensive. So can you meet my price or not?” 

“This is highway robbery,” the hunter grumbled, but he fished in his wallet for some cash. He shoved it at Barnes, who fumbled it for a moment, but then he pocketed the cash and handed the hunter a box of ammo. Silver ammo, Meg guessed. Getting good, bullet-worthy silver on the cheap was difficult unless one was willing to stoop to illegal means.

The hunter, clearly discomfited by his audience, hid the box somewhere in his bulky jacket, and turned to go. 

Benny froze. It was Grandpa hunter, from back in Lebanon.

Meg froze. The hunter stared at her for a long moment.

Then he said, “Christo.”

Meg flinched like she’d been shocked, but the hex bag must have held, because confusion crossed the hunter’s face. No black eyes, then. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, and he hurried away.

Benny watched him go, gaze laser-focused.

Leanne beamed at Barnes. “Hey, we just found out we’re a team for the quiz bowl. Whole bunches of teams have signed up. How do eliminations work?”

Barnes, who’d been eyeing Meg warily, broke out of his suspicious stupor. “Sorry! I haven’t finished posting the brackets yet. Teams face off in pairs. Single elimination. We tried to seed the brackets as fairly as possible based on the performances of those who competed last year.”

“Awesome! Thanks,” Leanne said. She tugged on Benny’s wrist again. “Let’s go find Stephanie.”

Stephanie emerged from the crowd around Abby’s booth with a brown paper bag full of patches. She fished one out of the bag and held it up to her left shoulder. It looked like a bloody hand print. “Check it out! I totally scored the last one.”

“We are _so_ going to win this quiz bowl,” Leanne told her. 

Stephanie looked down at where Leanne was hanging off of Benny’s arm, then up at Benny’s cautious expression. “What makes you say that?”

“Not because of me,” Benny said, raising one hand in surrender. 

“We did really lousy last year, so they’ll expect us to do lousy this year. We’ll totally be dark horses.” Leanne’s expression turned gleeful. 

“Always glad to be a horse of a different color,” Meg said.

Stephanie looked confused at the allusion. Meg caught Benny’s gaze, and he sighed. 

Meg didn’t care how well they did so long as they caught Sharon alone. As Barnes’s explanation of the inner workings of the quiz bowl wore on, Meg realized that to catch Sharon alone, they would either have to stake out the restroom – or win. Lesser staff were running the questions on the elimination rounds while Sharon coordinated the points and brackets, Alex ever by her side. 

If Meg weren’t doing this favor for Claire and an angel, she wouldn’t have hesitated to dismiss the trouble of Alex’s presence as collateral damage. As it was, Benny hadn’t fed in a few days. He needed to take an excursion to the local hospital for sustenance, and Meg couldn’t make a move without him. 

When the first panel ended in a round of enthusiastic applause, Meg and Benny kept close to their quiz bowl teammates. Meg scanned the crowd for other demons. She wondered if Abby, now aware of Meg’s human-seeming hex bags, was just as wary of other demons hidden in the crowd. Meg saw none, and Benny didn’t seem to sense anything amiss either, but Meg did notice the spasm that crossed his face when he saw another girl cosplaying as him, the beautiful dark-haired girl at his side likely Andrea. More than one person had black contacts in to play demons. Meg had vaguely considered letting her eyes show, but as it turned out, no one would see them while she was wearing her hex bag, and she wasn’t taking it off. 

Once the lecture hall was cleared, the other break-out sessions were announced, and some of the lesser convention staff scurried through the rows, straightening chairs and picking up trash. Sharon remained firmly ensconced between Barnes and Alex. Abby actually abandoned her post, letting another member of the convention staff take over, and she sauntered toward them. 

“How do you fancy your chances at winning this thing?” She tucked her hands into her pockets, posture innocuous, tone innocently inquiring.

“Pretty good,” Stephanie said. “Leanne and I have been studying since the last convention quiz bowl.”

“I see.” Abby cast Benny and Meg pointed looks. “How do you think your teammates will fare?”

“Not sure,” Stephanie said, “but I figure they’ll help us out. Right, guys?”

“Like I said, I’m just a warm body filling a seat.” Benny shrugged.

The corner of Abby’s mouth curved upward in amusement. “Yeah. Sure. Warm.”

“I’ve read all the books,” Meg said, “and I have a decent memory. I’ll pull my weight.”

“How goes the patch business?” Benny asked.

“Briskly,” Abby replied. “Clairestiel will be glad of the profit I have turned for her.” The double entendre in her words and the gleam in her eye were lost on Stephanie and Leanne, who cast uneasy looks at Benny and Meg. Meg and Benny shrugged off the pointed humor as if they didn’t get it, either.

“I’m glad something useful, like protection, is what’s selling,” Meg said, and Stephanie and Leanne snickered at the unintentional – and juvenile – pun.

From the front of the room, Barnes announced the first round of contestants. “Benny and the Jets versus Team Impala!”

Leanne’s eyes lit up. “That’s us!” She dragged Benny to the front of the room. The other two exchanged amused glances and followed.

The elimination round was just that – to eliminate teams efficiently. All the questions were softballs, fairly well-known pieces of information – the brothers’ birthdays, make and model of the car, their parents’ names, Sam’s girlfriend’s names. Winning had less to do with knowledge of trivia; the questions were less trivial and more to do with information one could learn from a single reading of the canon series. Winning was more about grace under pressure - who could answer quickly and not get flustered when all eyes were on them.

Benny surprised himself and his teammates with the pieces of trivia he knew, and he ducked his head, embarrassed (he was too undead to blush). Abby watched from the back of the room, arms crossed over her chest, expression calculating. Team Impala put up a good fight, but Benny and Meg had inhuman reflexes, which paid off with those buzzers.

As soon as their elimination heat was done – ten minutes of rapid-fire questions – Meg headed to the back of the hall to talk to Abby.

“Have you learned anything new about the current prophet?” she asked.

“Nothing more than I told you last night,” Abby said. She was angled toward Meg and gesticulating like she was discussing portions of the most recent quiz challenge. “But with the profit I’m turning for Clairestiel, I expect she’ll be fairly quick to trust me. We should know her location by the end of the convention.”

“And you’ll tell me straight away?” Meg asked.

Abby nodded. She was lying. She’d tell whoever could give her the biggest payday.

“Could you do something else for me?” Meg asked.

“Do what?”

Meg leaned in, lowered her voice. “Could you tell me how you did it?”

Abby stepped back a hair, expression wary. “How I did what?”

“How you got your original body back.”

Abby went utterly still.

“Or did you just replicate it?”

Abby didn’t say a word, didn’t move a muscle.

“Because if you could replicate me a vessel – say, the ultimate in demonic vessels – I could pay you well.”

Abby recovered enough to reply, tone smooth and unflappable. “How well is well? Because what you’re asking is worth more than all the money in the world.”

Meg said, “What about an angel’s grace?”

Abby stared at her. “How could you...? Not Castiel’s.”

Meg held her gaze, unmoving.

Abby swallowed hard. “And they call me cold and opportunistic.” She looked Meg up and down, appraising, calculating. For that price, Abby would get Meg anything she wanted. Was Abby smart enough to realize that an angel’s grace was like his soul, and if it were tortured like a soul, it could become a demonic weapon with power beyond current comprehension?

Before Meg could say more, Benny put a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, cousin. I’m going to duck out for a snack. I’ll be back in time for the next round of the quiz bowl.”

“A snack?” Abby raised her eyebrows. “Don’t you mean a drink?”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” Benny said, refusing to rise to the bait.

Leanne giggled and swatted him on the arm. “You’re so funny! And so good at staying in character.”

Benny cast Meg an aggrieved look, then turned and ducked out of the room.

“I’d better get back to my booth,” Abby said. “Good luck in the quiz bowl tournament. And about that offer you made – if you’re serious, come by and tell me more.” She held Meg’s gaze for a moment, then spun away and left the lecture hall.

“Offer?” Stephanie asked.

“For some custom patches,” Meg said. She smiled briefly, not quite nicely. “So, where are you two headed next?”

“We’re going to the next panel,” Leanne said. “It’s about classism in _Supernatural_.”

Meg raised her eyebrows. “Classism?”

Stephanie nodded. “Haven’t you ever noticed? All of the hunters, the fighters, the heroes, they’re all half-educated, blue collar. The demons and angels always wear perfectly tailored suits, except for the ambiguous ones, like Meg and Castiel. Sam had to give up education and a good life to hunt, as did Kevin to embrace his calling as a prophet.” Leanne wrinkled her nose. “It’s a little condescending, in its own way. Choose: heroism and a life of bravery or cowardice and a life of undeserved comfort. Money is evil and poverty is good. Being book-smart is laziness, softness, and being uneducated and proud of it is masculine, strong.”

“I’d never noticed that,” Meg said. She’d figured Crowley and the angels were mostly vain, if anything, given the vessels they picked. She picked her vessels because they were pretty. Hands down Sam had been the prettiest, but she preferred girls. But then she didn’t see the _Supernatural_ books as a literary world with themes to be explored. The world _was_ actually _Supernatural_. Her world, at any rate.

“It’ll be really interesting,” Leanne said earnestly. “We can save you a seat if you want.”

“No, but thanks,” Meg said. “I need some fresh air.”

“Okay. See you at the next round.” Stephanie waved, and she and Leanne departed.

What Meg needed to do was watch Sharon and wait. And she needed to call Claire while she was on her lunch break. Meg left the building and strode away from it till she was out of earshot of the majority of the convention attendees. She settled under a broad, shady tree – unlike Benny, she could enjoy the sun instead of constantly reapplying sunblock – and dialed.

“Hey, Meg.” Claire sounded surprisingly chipper and unharried.

“Hey to you, too, Featherby.”

“What’s up?”

“Got a lead on a demon,” Meg said. “We haven’t made our move yet because the demon has some information, and I need to know what it is, how far it’s spread before I can do my thing.”

“What kind of information?”

“Actually,” Meg said, “there are two demons. One is after you – or rather, the current prophet who she thinks is you. I suspect the other may or may not be trying to jump-start the Apocalypse.”

“What?” Claire hissed.

“Are you the current prophet?”

“No!”

“Well, protect yourself extra, and tell her to do the same,” Meg said. “I need to find out what both demons are up to, and then I can end them. I might have to end a few more while I’m at it.”

“Be careful,” Claire said. “I’ll take extra care and warn the prophet to do the same. How’s Benny?”

“Covered in sunblock, grumpy, and surprisingly full of _Supernatural_ trivia.”

“Tell him hi for me,” Claire said. “I’d better go.” There was a pause, and then a muffled, “Hi, Joey.” It was sweet, flirtatious.

Meg couldn’t help the gleeful grin that crossed her face. “Claire, are you talking to a boy?”

“Bye,” Claire said pointedly, and then to someone else, muffled, “You look pretty great yourself,” and the call ended.

Huhn. Claire Novak. Flirting with boys. She was already in college – talk about being a late bloomer. What would Jimmy Novak have to say about that? Or perhaps, more amusingly, what would Castiel have to say?

Meg pocketed her cell phone, stood up, and stretched. When she stepped back into the convention center, Sharon and Abby were in the middle of an intense conversation, and Sharon cast several piercing glances in Meg’s direction. If this were high school, Meg would have suspected Sharon and Abby of plotting to have the most popular boy in school ask her to prom so they could empty a bucket of pig’s blood all over her. But this wasn’t high school, and Meg was immensely glad she kept her backpack full of weapons with her at all times. Was Abby selling Meg and Benny down the river, or was Sharon one of the rare smart demons?

Before Meg could wander over to Sharon and introduce herself and start fishing for information, a blonde girl wearing a yellow leather jacket similar to one Meg had once worn sauntered up to her.

“Hi! You’re a Meg, right?”

Meg blinked at her. And then she realized what the girl meant. “Yes. I’m Meg 2.0. You make a pretty good 1.0.”

The girl beamed, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Thanks! Most people don’t seem to get who I am, but I just can’t wear contacts, especially not those all-black ones. I’m Nina, by the way.”

“Rachel.” Meg shook Nina’s proffered hand. “Demons aren’t just about black eyes, and Meg especially has a character all her own. I think a really good cosplayer can demonstrate she’s Meg without stumbling into things blindly because of those contacts.”

“I know, right? Meg’s amazing. Powerful. Sexy, but smart and dangerous, and assertive.” Nina nodded earnestly. “When I first read the books, I totally hated Meg, although I wouldn’t have minded tying Sam up and climbing on his lap, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” Meg said.

“But at the end, in ‘Goodbye Stranger,’ I was actually sad to see her go.” Nina sighed. “I know a lot of people think Meg 2.0 is non-canon and that she was portrayed pretty out-of-character, but I don’t think that’s true. She had character development. In the earlier books, she was helping Azazel, and then she was on a revenge kick, but by the time she got past that and Lucifer rose, she had a cause. She had a definite arc, and I really appreciated that. Not many female characters in _Supernatural_ have the same nuance, you know?”

Meg nodded. “So true.”

Nina looked young, maybe in her very early twenties, and earnest, fresh-faced. Like the original Meg Masters. She grinned, expression sly. “So, Megstiel. Do you ship it?”

“Totally,” Meg said. “It’s not cliché. It’s canon.” But she remembered, briefly, standing in Jimmy Novak’s kitchen and making dinner for Claire. She remembered Jimmy’s hands on her waist, his lips on her throat. She pushed that aside. 

“The whole demon-angel thing is a little cliché,” Nina said. “I kinda like to ship Sam/Meg. You know? She was inside of him. She knows him better than anyone.”

“By that token,” Meg said, “you could ship Sam/Gadreel or even Sam/Crowley.” One day, Sam would know she’d participated in this conversation. She might as well give him something to remember.

“Not entirely. Maybe Gadreel, given how long he was in Sam,” Nina said. “But not Sam/Crowley. That’s too short. Of course, there are the rare fans on Team Samifer.”

It took Meg a moment to puzzle out that ship portmanteau, and she managed not to shudder. Even though she’d given up supporting Lucifer in the end – because he’d lost – she was still a demon, and Ruby had been right: there was something one could call Demon Sunday School. And she’d never be able to imagine Lucifer having something resembling a lover. Physical lovers, yes, but not...not what she thought of Castiel. Sam had been through a Hell not even Meg wanted to imagine, and at least half of that was at Lucifer’s hands. Some things could not be turned into romance, and some things should not be.

But she also knew the power of being able to turn one into the other.

“Does anyone ship Adam/Michael, do you know?” Meg asked.

“I don’t know,” Nina confessed. “I’ve never really looked.” She paused, waved at someone over Meg’s shoulder. “Do you think, now that Castiel is human, Meg would still be interested in him?”

Once again, Meg saw that dream kitchen, that dream man standing in the doorway, heard the mortal lightness in his voice, remembered thinking he was Castiel. “I think so,” she said.

Nina wrinkled her nose. “Really? No way! Meg’s too badass for that. Cas as a human is –”

“A baby in a trenchcoat?”

Nina laughed. “Exactly. Oooh, hey, second round of the quiz bowl is starting soon. I saw you and your team. Good luck! We’re rooting for you.”

“Thanks.” Meg glanced at her watch. Where was Benny?

Nina waved and headed over to a group of other girls dressed as some of the female characters. Meg thought she recognized Jo, Tamara, and Tessa the Reaper. She even thought she saw someone who might be Bela, and she wondered what Abby thought of all the cheap imitations. Not much, when she could replicate the real people.

A hand came down on Meg’s shoulder.

She turned, one hand coming to brush off the stranger, other hand going for her blade. 

Benny said, “Where are my Jets?” He grinned. He had a fresh coat of sunblock on and looked chipper.

“How much did you drink?” Meg asked quietly.

“Enough.” He turned and scanned the crowd. Moments later, Leanne and Stephanie arrived. Leanne was hanging off of Benny’s arm before Meg could even say hello.

Alex was the quiz master for the second round of eliminations. Again, Abby hovered in the back of the room and watched.

“This round will test your knowledge of pop culture!” Alex crowed, and the crowd cheered.

Benny cast Meg a nervous look. Leanne and Stephanie were practically thrumming with excitement. Meg was leery. What did pop culture have to do with _Supernatural?_ It had everything to do with the aliases Sam and Dean chose. Meg suspected the majority of them were chosen by Dean.

Alex named a pair of aliases, and teams had to correctly guess where the aliases hailed from. For a man who liked old jazz and blues and had taken a shine to Norah Jones, Benny knew a surprising amount about classic rock and metal.

The other team was stumped on who Lenny Kilmister was, but Benny successfully identified him as the bassist and lead singer of the band Motorhead. Meg stared at him in shock. Benny also knew Fisher and Wilson were from Heart, Michaels and Deville were from Poison, and that Saul Hudson was Slash’s real name. Leanne cleaned house on any aliases that hailed from movies, like _Die Hard_ and _Beverly Hills Cop_.

Everything was going swimmingly – Team Sam’s Laptop was going down, and not even swinging – till they ran into pop music.

“Spears and Aguilera?”

Benny looked confused.

Team Sam’s Laptop chimed in with 90’s pop princesses.

“Banner and Stark?”

Team Sam’s Laptop chimed in with Marvel Comics characters.

“Agent Leiter?”

Silence reigned. Stephanie and Meg fixed their gazes on Leanne, who shrugged. Leanne nudged Benny. He shook his head, threw his hands up.

Alex peered at Team Sam’s Laptop, four girls all cosplaying as variations of Sam – Samifer, Sam Wesson, Hunter, and Agent – and they shook their heads. Alex looked out at the crowd where plenty of others were waving raised hands.

It was Abby who called out, in her crisp accent, “Felix Leiter, the CIA Agent who was a recurring character in James Bond films.”

Leanne groaned and let her forehead drop to her hands. “Bond. I totally spaced it.”

“Most of us didn’t watch old Bond movies growing up,” Stephanie said.

“I never watched them, either,” Benny said.

“But you’re older than us,” Leanne protested.

Meg laughed. “You have no idea. But Benny’s not much one for movies, though, are you?”

“Not unless Dean mentioned them while we were trawling Purgatory,” Benny said.

Stephanie blinked at him. “Wait. You blanked on that answer because you’re in character?”

“No,” Meg said, “he blanked on that answer because he has boring taste in media. Good showing there on the classic rock, though, cousin.”

The _cousin_ was a sharp reminder of who they were supposed to be.

Benny grinned and said, “You know Dean, always looking to educate people in his musical ways.”

Before an argument could really ensue, Nina and Abby came to congratulate them. Once again, Abby’s gaze was pointed; also, her handshake was literally cold. She wasn’t riding a human vessel, then. Stephanie and Nina fell into a conversation about their respective leather jackets and how hard it was to find leather jackets that achieved the hunter look but also looked flattering on a girl.

“So,” Abby said when Leanne and Stephanie wandered away with Nina, “I might have some information for you.”

Meg glanced at Benny, who nodded. Abby started to lead them away, then paused.

“Sorry. Duty calls. Meet me before the next round, all right?” She sounded distracted, her gazed fixed on someone in the crowd near her booth; Meg couldn’t quite tell who Abby was looking at, but then she was gone.

As soon as she was out of demonic earshot – Meg had taught Benny the difference between human, demon, vampire, and angelic earshot – Benny said, “She’s going to stab us in the back, isn’t she?”

“She’s a demon,” Meg said. “Do you really have to ask?”

Benny looked at her. “Would you stab me in the back?”

“Depends,” Meg said. “Would you be trying to kill me?”

“I can’t say I’d never try, because that’s a pretty long time, and you and I are most likely destined for a long time walking this dustbowl.” Benny shrugged. “But for the foreseeable future, we’re on the same team.”

“Then for the foreseeable future, I won’t stab you in the back.”  
  



	23. Chapter 23

Meg scanned the room, the signs outside each of the lecture halls. “Are you interested in a panel of mythology modernized: the cycle of vampires from monsters to lovers to monsters?”

Benny blinked at her. “What?”

“Or how about Narrative Gender Roles: Sam Winchester’s occupation of a traditionally female role?”

“Did you get hit over the head?”

“We have an hour to kill before the next round of the quiz bowl and not much to do,” Meg said. “So do you want to listen to one of the panels? Or do you want to do something else?”

“What else can we do?” Benny asked. 

Meg scanned the signs once more, and she grinned. “Karaoke.” She grabbed Benny’s wrist and tugged. Unlike for Leanne, Benny tried to resist. He was a vampire. She was a demon. With a little surge of power, she won.

The karaoke room had been going all day, and it seemed to be the site of one massive LARPing event. Some of the more enthusiastic fans had rearranged the chairs and tables so the room resembled a bar, complete with booths, card tables, and an actual bar serving various soft drinks. There was a stage with a karaoke machine, and the room was one entire LARP setting. Sam, Dean, Bobby, and Rufus were playing cards at one table. Sam and Ruby 1.0 were having an intense conversation in a booth. Charlie, Kevin, and the Ghostfacers were playing D&D at a card table. Ellen was pouring drinks and Jo was serving them. And plenty of people were enjoying the karaoke. A Dean and a Sam were onstage singing Bon Jovi’s “Wanted Dead or Alive” while a Castiel, a Crowley, and assorted female demons – Rubys, Megs, Liliths – were cheering and hooting. Dean had a fantastic voice. Sam sounded like he was strangling a cat.

Benny looked horrified.

Meg tugged him over to the table where the karaoke operator was playing Candy Crush on his phone. “Where’s the song list?”

The karaoke operator was a young Hispanic man, handsome and trendy and definitely not a _Supernatural_ fan. He nudged a white binder toward her without looking up from his phone.

Meg flipped it open.

“Before you ask, ‘Carry on Wayward Son,’ anything by Led Zeppelin, _this_ song, ‘Can’t Fight This Feeling’ by REO Speedwagon, ‘All Out of Love’ by Air Supply, and ‘Hey Jude’ by the Beatles are officially banned, or I might shoot myself.” The operator sounded bored and still did not look up from his phone.

“Noted,” Meg said. “Benny, let’s sing.”

“You have atrocious taste in music, and I can’t sing. Aren’t we, you know, supposed to be on the job?”

“We _are_ on the job,” Meg said brightly. “Part of that is blending in. Now pick!”

He scanned the list. “I don’t know these.”

Meg sighed. “Were you paying any attention at all in the car?”

“I was trying not to.”

Meg flipped through several pages. Then she spun the book around and held it out to the karaoke operator. “This one, please.”

He glanced at it, shrugged, and then nudged a sign-up sheet toward her. She scribbled their names on the list – everything here was surprisingly low-tech – and then went to sit at an empty “table” and watch.

“Shouldn’t we be back at the storage locker making sure our space is ready for work?” Benny asked. He kept his voice low. “Or should we be, I don’t know, trying to figure out how the Apocalypse could be jump-started yet again?”

Meg said, “Absolutely. Fire up your laptop. I’ll fire up the tablet. As for our workspace – are you doubting my construction prowess?”

“You’ve never worked construction.”

“Not the kind you’re thinking, no, but the kind I just did I could do in my sleep.”

Benny unslung his backpack and fished out his laptop, balanced it on his knees cautiously. “You don’t sleep.”

“Neither do you.”

“I sort of do.”

Meg eyed Benny and wondered if, after this quest was done, he’d do the emo thing and attempt to commit suicide by hunter. “If you could be human again, would you be?”

Benny, who’d been typing slowly, paused. He was a very slow typer. Watching him type text messages made Meg want to shoot herself out of boredom. “Why would you ask that?”

“I’m just curious.” Meg continued typing like nothing strange was happening between them.

“It’s not like it’s a possibility,” Benny said slowly.

“True,” Meg said. “I mean, you’ve already consumed human blood, and there’s no way to get blood from your sire anyway, but I’m just saying. All the things you enjoy – music, cooking, falling in love. That’s all...human.”

“It’s not possible,” Benny said. “I am what I am. Now, are we working or not?”

“We are,” Meg said.

Typing at various speeds ensued. A few moments later, Benny said, “Did you know there’s a _Supernatural_ Wikipedia site? An entire internet encyclopedia dedicated to the Supernatural books.” He peered over the top of the laptop at her, eyebrows raised. “You can find out anything you want about _Supernatural_ without rereading the books a hundred times.”

“Boning up for the next round of the quiz bowl? That’s just cheating,” Meg said. She avoided his judgmental stare. Yes, she was a fangirl. The badassery of being a demon cancelled out any the weirdness of being a fangirl.

“I mean,” Benny said, “the sixty-six seals. First is when a Righteous Man sheds blood in Hell, last is when the First Demon is killed. Sixty-four were broken the first time around, but there are over six hundred. Apparently the Righteous Man can be anyone. Sort of. But there was only one First Demon. So the cage can’t be opened with seals anymore, right?”

“That depends on how you define a demon,” Meg said. “There are many kinds of demons. Maybe all you’d need is the first of its kind.”

“You’re not making me feel better about what’s going on here,” Benny grumbled. “Besides, wouldn’t the rings of the Four Horsemen be quicker?”

“Death isn’t on anyone’s side,” Meg said. “Good luck getting a ring from him.”

“A new Antichrist, the potential for a new perfect vessel for Lucifer,” Benny said. “Why aren’t you more terrified?”

“I’m not terrified of a lot,” Meg said. “In the eternal words of Buffy Summers: ‘Apocalypse? We’ve all been there. The same old trips; why should we care?’“

“Actually,” Benny said, “I’ve never been there, and also, last time you were _for_ the Apocalypse.”

Meg smiled sweetly. “I learned my lesson, and now I’m playing for the winning team.”

“What did Claire say when you told her?”

“She and her new friend are on alert,” Meg said. “That’s the best we can ask for.”

“What if we call Dean?”

“Dean didn’t answer you, did he?”

Benny didn’t meet her gaze.

“Also, Dean and Sam’s track record for keeping prophets alive isn’t so great,” Meg said. “So you and I are going to finish this job for Claire, and then, in addition to the two most stubborn men on earth, Team Free Will will have its favorite Full Throttle angel.”

“Aren’t we part of Team Free Will?” Benny asked.

“Not sure we’re welcome in the clubhouse,” Meg said. “No subhumans allowed.”

“Castiel’s not human.”

“Angels count as superhuman. Pretty sure.”

Benny huffed. “True.” He arched an eyebrow. “How many different kinds of demons are there?”

Before Meg could answer, the karaoke operator said, with all the enthusiasm of a man reciting his grandmother’s shopping list, “Please welcome Meg and Benny to the stage.”

Meg stood up, abandoning her gear, and tugged Benny with her. He made a futile gesture at the laptop, but she just continued tugging on his elbow. She hopped up onto the stage, and the assorted female demons and Sam and Dean cheered and clapped with abandon.

Meg accepted one mic from the karaoke operator, thrust the other at Benny.

“Hi! I’m Meg, and this is Benny, and we’re on an excellent adventure!” She beamed, then dug an elbow into Benny’s ribs. He smiled weakly and waved. “Today, we’re bringing you our best demonic-vampiric rendition of ‘Henry Lee.’“

A murder ballad was only appropriate. That, and Meg might or might not have been the demon who’d goaded the woman into stabbing the real Henry Lee, or rather, a handsome man called Young Hunting.

Halfway through the song, the door opened, and Abby stepped into the room. She took up post beside a makeshift game of darts, crossed her arms over her chest, and put on her best amused smirk.

Benny, while he had a smooth and deep voice, wasn’t the greatest singer. Meg’s current meatsuit, budding actress she’d been, had a clear, steady voice, and with a little dose of demonic mojo, she sounded pretty good. Granted, this was karaoke, and no one was expecting them to sound like _American Idol_ finalists, but Meg liked to do things right.

When the song was done, the audience clapped and cheered. Meg took her bows, and Benny bobbed an awkward bow as well. They hopped off the stage, and the LARPers swarmed them, clapping Benny on the back, telling Meg what a set of pipes she had. If only those little fans knew who they were daring to touch, to share air with.

Meg escaped from the crowd and crossed the room to stand before Abby. “You had something to tell me earlier.”

“Bragging about a centuries-old murder? That’s more than a little tacky, don’t you think?”

“Not just a centuries-old murder,” Meg said. “After all, they’re still talking about it downstairs, centuries later.”

“Henry Lee? Please. That was so petty. And a century is nothing to demons.” Abby rolled her eyes.

A century topside was a very, very long time in Hell. “If you paid attention in demon Sunday School,” Meg said, “his name was Young Hunting. Or rather, Young Hunter. To be specific, Henry Samuel Campbell.”

Abby raised her eyebrows.

“Yes, one of _those_ Campbells. Please. Do tell me who sings what about you,” Meg said.

“Apparently Sam sings my praises about how I am in bed...in his dreams.”

“We all know Sam’s taste in women – pretty, broken, and eventually dead, so that really doesn’t say much about you, except that his taste is accurate. Look at you.” Meg deliberately raked her gaze up and down Abby’s form.

Abby mock-pouted. “I thought we were here to work together.”

“Not the same as making nice,” Meg said. “So, you said you had information for me?”

Abby pursed her lips thoughtfully, shrugged. “Touché.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “Sharon takes the winners of the quiz bowl to the back room herself for the grand prize. No one will expect to see her till the evening panel. It’s your best chance of getting the information you need.”

“Thank you,” Meg said. “We appreciate it.”

“Now, about that deal you mentioned earlier. A new vessel, the Moose model, in exchange for an angel’s grace. Is it still on the table?”

“We’ll talk about it when we’re done with Sharon.” Meg glanced over her shoulder and caught Benny’s gaze; he’d heard the entire exchange. “Sounds like we have to get to that final round of the quiz bowl. See you there.” 

Benny, who had quietly collected all their gear, handed Meg her backpack, and together they stepped out into the crowd. Not very many had attended the quiz bowl elimination rounds, but apparently the final round was a pretty big deal, because Damian and Barnes were scurrying back and forth across the stage in the biggest lecture hall, setting up tables and chairs and buzzers. Sharon and Alex were sitting at the scoring table. Someone had procured a scoring system Meg usually saw at high school basketball games, and Alex was poking at a complicated electrical panel, making the numbers change.

Leanne didn’t latch onto Benny’s arm. She wore an intense expression, and in that moment she strongly resembled Castiel when he was at his most earnest, his most dedicated. Stephanie was pacing back and forth, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“You all right?” Benny asked.

“Last year, Team Badass and Pistol wiped the floor with their challengers,” Stephanie said. “I’m pretty sure they’ve memorized every book verbatim. I’m pretty sure they have some of the most popular fanfiction stories memorized, too.”

“Even if we don’t win,” Meg said, “we kicked ass. That means something.”

Stephanie turned and looked longingly at the sign displayed on a pedestal between the two team tables advertising the grand prize: the publisher’s edition of the Collected _Supernatural_ , from "Supernatural" to "Swan Song". “I want to win.”

“You know, the four of us can’t split one set of books,” Meg said.

Leanne turned wide, mournful eyes on her. “Splitting them? But Ty said –”

Meg cast him an arch look. “What did Ty say?”

“We’re not in it for the prize, cousin,” he said, speaking slow and easy. “We’re in it for the fun.”

“Of course we are,” Meg said. She tried to communicate, with solely the power of her mind, that she and Benny had to be the only ones to accompany Sharon back to the prize vault so they could kidnap her, interrogate her, and then kill her. Benny wasn’t looking at her, instead looking torn between comforting Leanne and laughing at her woeful expression.

Before Meg could stomp on his ankle or kick him or use any other patented Winchester method of non-verbal communication, Barnes stepped out of the lecture hall and announced the final round of the quiz bowl.

People abandoned booths and conversations and streamed into the lecture hall, eager for the best seats.

Team Badass and Pistol was comprised of a young man cosplaying as Dr. Badass or Ash the hacker, a pretty girl cosplaying as Jo Harvelle, and then a strikingly attractive and intense-looking African-American couple cosplaying as Tamara and Isaac. They arrayed themselves at their team table with all the dignity of a team of scientists about to testify to a congressional oversight committee about their new world-changing technology. 

Benny had to herd Leanne and Stephanie, who were looking increasingly terrified, up onto the stage to take their places at the team table. Sharon and Alex were perched behind the scoring table, Alex with her hands hovering over the switch panels, Sharon with a pen and a calculator. Meg had always admired the endurance some demons demonstrated in a long con. If Meg hadn’t been able to see Sharon’s demonic face, she’d have believed Sharon was nothing more than a dedicated fan.

“All right, the event everyone is excited about every year!” Barnes said. “The final round of the _Supernatural_ Quiz Bowl! Teams have battled and fought, struggled and tried, and now here they are, the best, the brightest, the fastest. The reigning champions from the last five years, Team Badass and Pistol, versus shadowy underdogs, Benny and the Jets!”

The audience burst into cheers and applause.

Meg adjusted her buzzer infinitesimally and glanced around the room. Abby was lurking in the back, arms folded across her chest, looking supremely amused and smug. At the other end of the table, Leanne had turned a spectacular shade of green.

“And now, as an extra-special treat, here is our quiz master, Becky Rosen!”

Becky was pretty much as Chuck had described her, slender, with dark-blonde hair, narrow features, and wide, intense eyes. She dressed like a reject from the _Nancy Drew_ movie, and she was quivering with excitement. She snatched the microphone from Barnes.

“Hi, everybody! It’s so good to see you again! This convention is what I look forward to all year every year.” Her voice was high-pitched and squeaky. She needed a Xanax or five. “So, let’s see who knows the most about _Supernatural!_ ”

Barnes handed her the question cards.

“Contestants, ready your buzzers!”

Benny could laugh at Meg all he wanted, but reading the _Supernatural_ books over and over again was about to pay off in the most randomly useful way possible.

Team Badass and Pistol were the reigning champions for a reason. They were fast, focused, and seemed to know every single thing about _Supernatural_ , from the name of Sam’s teacher who’d been a demon to the name of girl who convinced Dean to try on a pair of pink satin panties. But Benny and Meg still had superhuman reflexes to their names, and Meg was a demon with Spencer Reid’s memory. 

After the first round, they were tied. Leanne and Stephanie had only managed to pitch in a few questions. The opposing team’s backbone, despite the team’s name, was Tamara. She and Meg went head-to-head at nearly every question. While both sides gulped down water, Becky announced the rules for the second round – questions worth double points, and a secret bonus question, which was worth ten points.

Meg stood up, stretched, flicked her gaze at Abby. She applauded silently, mockery written all over her features. Sharon and Alex were testing some of the buzzers and were generally unconcerned about the tension crossing the room. Benny was crouched beside Leanne, rubbing circles on her back and whispering in her ear. Stephanie was pacing the length of the table, expression distant with concentration, whispering to herself. Nina and several others in the crowd caught Meg’s gaze and waved, flashed her a thumbs up. Meg smiled back.

Humans. So easily led astray by petty loyalties, quick thrills. Not that Meg had never jumped ship to a winning team.

“All right!” Becky said, clapping her hands. “Here we go for round two!”

Round two was brutal, but Leanne came alive. She was so fast on the buzzer she might have been a supernatural creature herself. Tamara redoubled her efforts, eyes flashing. The questions took on more difficult forms, analogies and riddles. If _Supernatural_ were the SATs, its questions would look like what Becky had written on her little cue cards.

“Blank is to Benny as blank is to Sam,” she said.

Benny hit the buzzer. “Andrea and Amelia. Or Jess.”

Becky pumped a fist in the air. “Amelia or Jess are both acceptable. Two points to Benny and the Jets!”

Meg raised her eyebrow at Benny. He’d said Andrea’s name without flinching. That might not have seemed so impressive if not for rampant fan speculation that Sam slept face-down so he wouldn’t have to wake up and see Jess burning on the ceiling. Benny’s pain and loss surely ran deeper, given how long he and Andrea had been together.

Benny stared straight ahead – at Abby.

She smirked and waggled something in her hand. The plastic tubing from a blood bag.

Meg curled her hands into fists. Distracting Benny like that was just cruel. Did Abby not want them to win? She certainly wasn’t holding up her end of the bargain. Benny and Meg needed to get Sharon alone.

Becky fired off a series of questions about cars – where the Impala was originally bought, what kind of car Bobby drove, the make and model of the car Sam and Dean drove in the “My Heart Will Go On” alternate universe. Stephanie and Isaac tackled those, Stephanie with aplomb, Isaac so wound up the veins in his neck were throbbing.

Meg glanced at the scoreboard. They were still neck and neck, and no bonus question was in sight.

Till Meg heard her name.

“Where was Meg Masters the human originally from?”

Meg hit the buzzer.

“Benny and the Jets?”

Meg smiled. “Andover, Massachusetts.”

Benny murmured, low enough so only she could hear, “Cheater.”

“Congratulations!” Becky clapped her hands and jumped up and down. “Bonus points to you!”

Tamara’s hands clenched into fists. The look she cast Meg was murderous. All things being equal, she was taking this whole quiz bowl too seriously. After all, she was in it as a fan and for a prize. Meg was in it for some possibly Apocalypse-arresting mojo.

The break for round three couldn’t have come soon enough. Meg almost choked when Becky announced the rules – ten questions, five points each, and if there was a tie after that, sudden death.

Naturally, there was a tie.

Sudden death for a quiz bowl was a highly inaccurate descriptor. There was no immediate danger of physical harm or mortal injury, just questions bouncing back and forth. The answers required deeper and deeper levels of minutiae – the names of all the Campbell cousins, the names of the angels in Castiel’s garrison, Sam’s most frequently used classic rock alias, Jess’s middle name, Andrea’s last name.

John Winchester’s middle name.

“Eric,” Meg said.

The entirety of Team Badass and Pistol gaped at her.

“Yes.” Instead of sounding excited and hyper, like Becky seemed to after every question, she looked pale and afraid.

Meg glanced at Benny, eyebrow raised questioningly. He shrugged; he didn’t know what the problem was, either.

But then Becky said, “Congratulations, Benny and the Jets. You’ve won.” She sounded like she was about to faint. Her hands were shaking.

The entire room burst into cheers and applause. The other team slumped over, looking shell-shocked.

Benny rose up, pulled Leanne and Stephanie’s chairs back. How anyone would think he was a modern man with such old-fashioned manners was a mystery to Meg. He crossed the stage to shake hands with the other team, who still looked shocked and confused. Leanne and Stephanie hugged each other, jumping up and down.

Becky crossed the stage to shake their hands, first Benny, then Meg.

“Are you all right?” Benny asked.

Becky swallowed hard and gazed up at him, wide-eyed. “Who are you?”

“I’m Ty,” he said. “And this is my cousin, Rachel.”

Becky shook her head. “No. Who are you really? Because John Winchester’s middle name isn’t in the books.”

Meg arched an eyebrow. “Then how did you know my answer was right?”

“You’ve met them, haven’t you?” Becky said. “Sam and Dean. For real, right? I asked Dean what the E on John Winchester’s tombstone stood for in ‘What Is and Never Should Be.’ He said it was Eric.” She stepped closer, lowered her voice. “Are you hunters?”

“No,” Abby said. “They’re not.”

When had she got so close?

There was a twitch at Meg’s neck. She’d felt the sensation before, the brief sting of pressure, then release. Someone had just stolen her necklace.

No, not her necklace – her hex bag.

Dammit.

Alex said, “Christo.”

The edges of Meg’s world flickered.

Becky screamed. “Demon!”

Sharon was on her feet, scoring table forgotten. Her eyes also flickered black. “Meg,” she hissed.

Becky scrambled backward, screaming at the top of her lungs. The happy chatter in the audience gave way to confusion. Meg sighed, rolled her eyes, and flickered across the stage to Sharon. She caught Sharon by the throat.

“Hey, stunt demon number whatever,” Meg said. “Abby says you have a line on the current prophet. Give me a name.”

Sharon shook her head in utter disbelief. “No. That’s impossible. You’re dead.”

“Prophet,” Meg said, “or I tell Crowley you helped Abby get out of The Pit and you gave up everything you know about the prophet.”

Sharon spat at her. “Whore.”

Meg rolled her eyes. “Seriously? Why does everyone go there? Just because I may or may not be evil doesn’t mean I trade sex for money.”

Sharon blinked at her, confused. Of course feminism was lost on demons.

“Satisfy me,” Meg said, “or I please myself.”

Barnes said, “You’ve used that line before.”

Holy water rained down.

Meg threw herself backward reflexively. Sharon, caught in the crossfire, writhed in pain and hissed.

The confused sounds in the audience turned to fear.

Damian, clutching a copy of “Jus in Bello,” began reciting a shaky exorcism. 

“Benny,” Meg choked out. “Little help.” She struggled to her feet, body wracked with the power of the exorcism. 

Abby had a silver blade to Benny’s throat. “Not so tough now, are we, Meg?”

Becky was hiding behind Barnes, eyes wide with terror.

Meg summoned just enough energy to punch Damian across the face. He yelped and fell backward, tumbled off the stage. The exorcism was done – for now.

“You know,” Meg said, shaking herself off, “I had plans. Big plans. Interrogation. Torture. Fancy information to take back to my boss about the newest prophet. And you had to go and ruin it.”

Sharon, who’d also been affected by the exorcism, rose to her feet. “So, Meg. Funny how the legend is so much more than the bitch.”

“You stole my line,” Meg said.

“You recycled one of your own.” Sharon rolled her shoulders like a boxer loosening up for a fight. “I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

“Meg,” Benny said.

“He’s a real vampire,” Abby said to Sharon.

“She’s telling the truth,” Meg said, “but you have to wonder why an entrepreneurial soul like Abby is hanging around you. I mean, what could she possibly gain from you?”

Sharon lifted her chin. “I’m powerful. Crowley trusts me.”

“His trust is misplaced, because Abby’s running a scam right under your nose,” Meg said.

Sharon cast a sharp, black-eyed look at Abby.

“She’s lying,” Abby said.

“Hi, we’re all demons here,” Meg said. “We all lie by nature. Except, of course, when it’s more hurtful to be honest. So am I telling the truth? Or am I lying?”

“Abby,” Sharon said, “what is she talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that Abby got her old body back,” Meg said. She smiled sweetly at Sharon. “Wouldn’t you like yours back? I can tell what you looked like under all the torture scars. You were beautiful – far more beautiful than the potato sack you’re wearing now. Wouldn’t you like that back?”

Sharon narrowed her eyes at Abby, searching for something she’d never be able to see. Few demons could see beneath the demonic layer. People underestimated Meg all the time.

“I was going to tell you,” Abby said, “once I was sure I had it perfect. We could split the profits. The ultimate meatsuits for demons who pay top dollar, right?” Her voice shook.

Out of the corner of her eye, Meg saw Damian back on his feet.

“You okay, Benny?” Meg asked.

“Just peachy for a guy about to have his throat slit,” Benny said.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t send him back to Purgatory,” Meg said, “seeing as how someone went to a lot of trouble to get him out.”

Abby’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t get yourselves out?”

“The portal only works on humans,” Meg said. She needed to close distance, to get Sharon, but the moment she blinked, Benny was dead. And now Damian had recovered his book.

“Such a long run for such a short slide.” Meg sighed and shook her head.

Sharon’s brow furrowed. “What?”

Meg reached into her pocket. “Catch!” She threw her hex bomb, reeled off a spate of Latin.

Sharon caught it reflexively. What happened next was horrifying and terrifying. Sharon convulsed like she was coughing, choking. She doubled over, retching, and black smoke poured out of her mouth.

Abby swore and took a step back, loosening her grip on Benny. He elbowed her away, shoved her off of the stage.

Meg could only stare as Sharon’s soul poured out of her, solidified, and dribbled to the floor as black ichor. And then she remembered herself and fumbled in her jacket pocket for a spare vial. It took two or three tries before she could make herself move toward the dying demon. But she needed that ichor, and she needed it now.

The lecture hall was half empty. The humans who remained were huddled in frightened clusters, sheep watching the bickering wolves, waiting for the wolves to turn on them.

Abby vanished in a demonic blink.

Meg didn’t have time to care. She rolled up her sleeves, reached out, and caught some of Sharon’s soul in the vial.

Sharon hit the stage with a final thump, twitched, and was dead.

Or rather, the demon was dead.

Somehow, Sharon’s vessel had survived. She immediately heaved herself up onto her knees and threw up some more.

“That’s disgusting,” Benny said.

“Time for us to go,” Meg said. She scanned her surroundings for her other hex bag, but Abby must have taken it with her. Dammit.

Alex, hiding behind the scoring table, was trembling and praying softly. She couldn’t look up when Meg passed her. 

Barnes had his arms flung wide, shielding Becky with his body. “Christo!” he shouted.

Meg flinched, sighed. “Seriously. Not the enemy here. I mean, yes, I just ended Sharon, but look, hey, vessel’s still alive. I pulled a quasi-Sam Winchester.”

“You’re a real demon.” Barnes’s voice, high-pitched with fear, broke on the last word.

“You know ghosts are real.” Meg tilted her head to one side, quizzical. “Why not demons?”

Some members of the audience stirred. Plenty had their smartphones out and were filming.

“The time has come to be done with the chatting,” Benny said. He slipped his hand into Meg’s. “Let’s go.”

“Right,” Meg said. She beamed like a pageant princess and offered her own royal wave. “Thanks for coming to the Sixth Annual _Supernatural_ Convention. Hope to see you next year!”

She blinked them right into the car.

“Are you insane?” Benny demanded.

“No. A little peeved, honestly. We did so well on the first two phases – ferreted out some important intelligence on top of collecting spell ingredients.” Meg fired up the engine and zipped out of the parking lot. “We just spent a ridiculous amount of time and energy pretending to be _Supernatural_ fans, and what do we have? Not much. In fact, we might have set ourselves back by alerting Crowley to the fact that he’s not the only person who knows about the new prophet.”

“A long run for a short slide?” Benny echoed.

“I feel kinda like Cas,” Meg said. “Urgent prayer, quick flight, and no Ark. So disappointed.”

“But we got the final ingredient,” Benny pointed out.

“And so it goes,” Meg said.

“What?”

“You and Dean spent an entire year in Purgatory, and he never told you about Vonnegut?”

“No.”

Meg shoved Benny in the shoulder. “Get out the tablet and read. Under a blanket, because we’re running low on sunblock. You can hide in the back seat with your own blanket fort.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Benny said.

“Call me Meg. Miss Masters if you’re nasty.”

Benny, halfway into the back seat, paused. “What?”

Meg pushed him the rest of the way. “Before we get pulled over for you not wearing a seat belt.”

As Meg drove, she hoped Abby wouldn’t run to Crowley. Chances were, Abby would make use of the information herself.

“Meg,” Benny said, “you’ve got to stop using pop culture references I don’t understand. Either help me understand them, or use pop culture references I _will_ understand. You were around when I was a mortal, weren’t you?” His voice from beneath the blanket was muffled.

“We’re like Rosie the Riveter,” Meg said. “We can do it.”

“I’m not like anyone named Rosie,” Benny said flatly.

Meg grinned at herself in the rearview mirror and added, “We can do it _all night long_.”

Benny reached up and smacked her.


	24. Chapter 24

**Title:** Empty Vessel  
**Author:** Clairestiel  
**Fandom:** Supernatural  
**Pairings/Warnings:** None/None  
**Summary:** Claire Novak is still out there. This is her story. ~~AU after _Swan Song_~~ Coda to KTAP’s _Caged Heat._

All signs of the Apocalypse had ceased. The local preachers and fanatics who stood on street corners wearing sandwich boards calling people to repentance slowly faded into the woodwork. Claire had been hoarding salt, holy water, holy oil, and silver like no one’s business. Some of the other neighbors, who’d built what amounted to bomb shelters in their basements, relaxed their vigilance. No rapture. No bodies vanishing out of clothing. No crazy weather signs.

Everything was fine.

Claire didn’t think so. She was fifteen and in a new school, a new town, and nothing was safe. Not the nice old lady in the apartment downstairs who had half a dozen cats and was always plying Mom with gifts of brownies and cookies. Not the cute twenty-something guy who sold newspapers and magazines on the corner (Mom said she could see a demon beneath his skin, and then she said one day the demon was gone, and the guy looked sadder than Claire remembered).

So what if the weather was quiet? Claire wasn’t going to let up on collecting her protective supplies. In fact, she was going to come up with newer, better protective supplies. Starting with water pistols and some anti-supernatural liquids. The padre at the catholic church on the other corner thought she was a little strange, slipping in to filch holy water here and there. The Mormon missionaries who roamed the neighborhood, on the other hand, were always glad to part with a little plastic container of holy oil in exchange for Claire stopping and listening to their stories about Jesus.

Claire was pleased with the results of her labor, two water pistols, one filled with holy oil (that one was green) and holy water (that one was orange). She’d picked up a couple of condiment dispensers at a Salvation Army to use as speed reloaders, and both of those were fully stocked and under her bed within arm’s reach. She sat back and admired the pistols for a few moments, gleaming on her desk, and then sighed and scooped up her emergency kit, tucked them both into it, and shoved it back under the bed.

If she were smart, she’d scatter monster-hunting supplies all through the house, the way alcoholics did with their booze. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? Even if Mom liked to pretend the world was normal (save the random people she noticed who had demons inside of them), she needed protection, too. If push came to shove, she’d fight, right?

Right. Claire stood up, mentally scanning the house. Where were some good hiding spots that were concealed but easily accessible in case of emergency? Where could she hide weapons in plain sight?

Cleaning supplies. Laundry supplies. Chemicals and spray bottles. Perfect.

Claire started for the door, and then Castiel was standing in front of her.

“What does the Ark of the Covenant have to do with Raiders and Nazis?” he demanded.

Claire yelped and fell back a step. “What? Who – seriously?”

“I am completely serious,” Castiel said. “I need to know all instances of Holy Relics on the earth.”

“ _Raiders of the Lost Ark_ is a movie,” Claire said. “A pretty old movie. It’s about a fictional archeologist named Indiana Jones who, during World War II, was trying to rescue special historical artifacts – including the Ark of the Covenant – from the Nazis, who thought they could use the Ark as some kind of mystical weapon.”

Castiel sighed and slumped against the doorframe. “Humans are so complicated. You spend entire lifetimes and entire cultures consumed with producing and then passing on inane fictions.”

“Did someone tell you they knew where the Ark of the Covenant was?” Claire asked.

“It was a ruse,” Castiel said, “which I would have known if I understood but a fraction of what you know without even trying.”

Claire stepped back, gestured for Castiel to enter her room. He sat down on the corner of the bed. “Is there anything else I can help you with?” She suspected most of Castiel’s pop culture knowledge came from Dean, and to a much lesser extent Sam, so she was probably too young to help.

“I know Sam and Dean have a particular method of choosing their aliases,” Castiel said. “They always seem to be able to respond to aliases made up on the spot. If Dean picks an alias while Sam is out of the room, when Sam enters and is introduced with a somehow matching alias, he responds smoothly. It’s some sort of code I don’t understand.”

“Oh. Well, I’m not sure how much help I’d be, but maybe a few hours in the music section of a Best Buy would be helpful,” Claire said.

“Music?” Castiel raised his eyebrows.

“Dean likes to pick aliases of popular musicians,” Claire said. “Tyler and Perry, like Steven Tyler and Joe Perry. Geddy and Lee, as in Geddy Lee from Rush.” Thanks, _Supernatural_ fan forums. “Sometimes Dean will pick names from buddy cop movies from the 80’s, too, but mostly musicians.”

“Ah. I see.” Castiel’s brow furrowed in thought. “Are there any other movies involving religious relics I should know about?”

“ _Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade_ is about the Holy Grail. As is _Monty Python and the Holy Grail_. Also _The Da Vinci Code_ ,” Claire said. She rifled through her mental movie collection. She didn’t get out to the cinemas often, but she had convinced Mom to splurge for some Netflix. “Maybe spend some time in the DVD section at Best Buy, too.”

Castiel sighed. “How do you do it all? How can you have so much knowledge crammed into such a finite mind?”

Claire blinked. Had he just called her stupid? She shook it off. He wasn’t often deliberately insulting that way. He probably meant it literally. Did that mean his mind had infinite capacity? Would that make her dad’s head explode? So far it hadn’t seemed to.

“Well,” Claire said, “you know much more than I do. You know all of history. Ever. Every single thing humans have ever done, right? And before that, when humans were, you know, fish.” She’d have to take that up with one of the local pastors and see what he or she said about evolution.

“But all of these stories,” Castiel said. “How do you keep track of them?”

“Some people are less good at it than others,” Claire said. “Dean’s probably good at it out of necessity. Look at his lifestyle – a lot of time on the road with nothing better to do than listen to classic rock stations, the same classic rock music his father listened to. Late nights in crappy motels with whatever B-grade movie reruns are available. Maybe occasionally sneaking into nicer cinemas to see newer movies. Reading a few books along the way. Outside of hunting, all he probably has time for is the music and movies and few books he knows. Unlike someone who isn’t always on the move, he hasn’t had time to develop any interests or hobbies that require either lots of space or lots of equipment or stability. Like learning an instrument, or painting.” Most of Claire’s habits were also portable – embroidery, making bracelets.

“Sam has many hobbies besides books, television, and music,” Castiel said, “and he lives the same lifestyle as Dean.”

“Well,” Claire said, “he did have three and a half years of college to stay put and pick up new hobbies. And he also likes different books, including books on culture and politics and history. Dean likes pop culture, so he’s good at it. Sam likes pop culture, if a different subset of it, so he’s good at that.”

Castiel buried his face in his hands. “It’s all so stressful.”

“Pop culture?” Claire asked.

“And...other things.” Castiel peered at her from between his fingers. “You’re very wise about pop culture.”

“I’m human, and I grew up with my culture, so it just is to me.” Claire shrugged. “Besides hanging around at a Best Buy and going through its entire media collection, I’m not sure I can help you much.”

Castiel actually smiled at her. “I appreciate your advice. I don’t think I have time to do all that, though.”

“Well, it has taken me, Sam, and Dean a lifetime to learn all we know about pop culture. I couldn’t really ask you to take time out of all you’re doing.” Claire resisted the urge to ask why Castiel was so awful at pop culture references while some angels were good at pop culture. Demons seemed to be great at pop culture. Maybe it was because demons were more invested in humans, in knowing their minds and nuances so as to tempt their souls away from them. Angels were, by comparison, light years distant from their human charges.

Castiel groaned and closed his eyes. He seemed...exhausted. That was one of the differences between him and Dad. Dad was cheerful, energetic. Castiel always seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“So...” Claire fumbled for something to say. And then she realized. “The Apocalypse is over, right? Sam and Dean stopped it?”

“Yes,” Castiel said. “They did.”

“So...can Dad come home now?”

Castiel’s hesitation told her all she needed to know.

“Let me guess. You still need him?” Claire was horrified at the way her voice came out choked.

“There is a civil war in heaven now that Michael is trapped with Lucifer in the cage,” Castiel said. 

“And you need Dad’s vessel to keep on fighting?”

Castiel closed his eyes and sighed. “In the final battle, between Lucifer and Michael –”

“You mean Sam and Adam,” Claire said flatly.

“In the final battle,” Castiel said, “Lucifer killed me. Destroyed me. Pulled me apart at the subatomic level. No soul would have survived.”

“You mean...Dad’s soul was destroyed?” A sob hitched in Claire’s voice. She swallowed hard.

“No,” Castiel said quickly. “His soul is in Heaven. But I couldn’t have brought him back from that. A fatal wound, a gunshot, I could have healed him from those. But not...that. I didn’t bring myself back from that. And when I was brought back, Jimmy’s soul was gone. In Heaven. He was destined for Heaven as soon as he said _yes_ to me.”

Claire couldn’t help it. She burst into tears.

Castiel said, “Oh, no, please don’t.”

Claire curled into a little ball, face buried in her hands, and sobbed hard. Dad was dead. He was gone forever. She’d never get to see him again. She’d hoped and dreamed that he would come back. As soon as Castiel’s job was done, she’d get her father back. For years, that was all that had kept her getting out of bed each morning.

But he was dead. Castiel had gotten him killed.

A hand came down on her shoulder.

Claire screamed and shoved him away. She scrambled back on her bed, curled up, and continued crying.

“Claire, I’m sorry, I didn’t – it was the Apocalypse. The entire world –”

“Shut up! Shut up and go away!”

“I don’t think I should,” Castiel said. “Are you going to harm yourself?”

It crossed her mind for half a second. She’d be dead. She could see Dad again. But if she committed suicide, would she get to see him in Heaven?

There was a rustle, and then Castiel said, quickly and quietly, “Sam, how do I comfort an upset teenage girl? No, I don’t think that’s appropriate. Also, because she’s a teenager, isn’t that illegal? I don’t think a mortal court would find that technical distinction persuasive. Not that a mortal court could hold me – put Dean on the phone, would you? Yes, I do want to speak to Dean instead. Because you have no soul and your empathy skills leave much to be desired.”

Claire tried to take deep breaths, but they came out stuttered and broken with sobs. Dad was dead. Dad was dead.

He was _dead_.

She started crying all over again.

Castiel had another frantic conversation, and then she heard his cell phone snap shut. The bed dipped beneath his weight as he settled a cautious distance away from her.

“Claire,” he said, “I can go get some chocolate ice cream, and I can fetch a film about baby farm hens.”

Claire lifted her head, scrubbed a hand over her face. “What?”

Castiel wore a tense, anxious expression. “Dean said – he said when teenage girls are upset, the best thing to do is ply them with chocolate ice cream and films about baby farm hens.”

“Films about baby farm hens?” Claire echoed slowly. “Were those his exact words?”

“Well, he said chick flicks, so he meant baby hens.”

Claire couldn’t help it. She laughed.

Castiel looked even more nervous.

“Chick flicks and chocolate ice cream? I didn’t break up with my boyfriend, idiot. You just told me my dad is dead, has been for a good long while.”

“Oh. Um...do you still want the chocolate ice cream?”

“No.” Claire shook her head and sat back, drained. Tears continued to leak out of the corners of her eyes. “What I want is to see my dad one last time, and say goodbye.”

“Oh,” Castiel said. “Well...I can do that, if you like.”

Claire blinked at him. “But he’s in Heaven.”

“I won’t be killing you, if that’s what you mean,” Castiel said. “Do you have an iPod?”

“I have a crystal radio,” Claire said. 

“That should suffice.”

Claire swiped her hand over her face a couple more times, then wiped her hands on the thighs of her jeans. She scooted across the bedspread to the nightstand and fished out her crystal radio.

“Paper, if you please,” Castiel said. He drew his angel blade.

Claire tore several sheets of lined paper out of one of her binders and arranged them in a circle around the radio.

“You remembered.” Castiel sounded faintly pleased.

Claire smiled at him, then scooted out of the way so he could draw using his blood.

His blood. Not Dad’s. Not anymore.

Her throat closed.

Castiel began to chant, and Claire felt it, the thrum of divine power. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Jimmy Novak said, “Hello? Who’s there?”

Claire opened her eyes. “Daddy, it’s me.”

“Hey, baby.”


	25. Chapter 25

Part V

Benny sat bolt upright. “That’s where it ends?”

“That’s where it ends,” Meg said.

Benny spluttered. “But – but what happened? What did he say to her? What did she say to him?”

“None of our business,” Meg said loftily. She guided the car off of I-93 and into the heart of the city. 

“But...you’re a demon! Since when do you care about privacy?” Benny heaved himself into the front seat. They’d taken turns for the three days it took to drive from Lebanon back to Boston to meet up with Claire. She was up to her ears in homework and had been very terse on the phone. 

“If you want to know so much,” Meg said, “you can ask her when you see her.” She might or might not have gotten lost on the way to the Novak apartment, but she didn’t let Benny know. If he bothered to read the newest run of Winchester gospels, he’d find out, but Boston had such winding, confusing streets that he had no hope of noticing how lost they were.

After driving for forty minutes, most of the delays due to Meg’s poor navigation skills than due to the winter traffic on the snow-slick roads, Meg parked behind the seafood restaurant.

Benny inhaled appreciatively as he stepped out of the car. Meg scooped up her backpack containing Merlin’s heart, a succubus’s kiss, the vials of demon ichor, and all of her hunting gear – but none of her clothes, those could stay in a separate bag – and headed up the fire escape.

She knocked.

Amelia Novak opened the door. She screamed.

“Wait,” Meg said, raising her hands in a gesture of surrender.

Amelia jackrabbited back a step, reached into the linen closet, and came up with a laundry spray bottle. She sprayed Meg in the face. Meg hissed and recoiled at the onslaught of holy water.

“Demon!” Amelia cried. “Claire – Claire, run!”

Benny jumped in front of Meg, arms also raised in surrender. 

“Ma’am,” he said, softly, urgently, “please. We’re not here to hurt you.”

She sprayed him in the face with the holy water, then looked terrified when nothing happened.

Claire came skittering around the corner, armed with two super soakers, one labeled “holy water”, the other labeled “holy oil”. She fired. Benny took the brunt of both shots, but Meg flinched and twitched from holy water spray.

“No, Claire, I can’t lose you, too,” Amelia said. She pushed in front of Claire and drew herself up to her full height. She was trembling from head to toe. “You can do what you want to me, but you leave her alone.”

“Ma’am,” Benny said again, “we come in peace.”

Claire, who had leveled both super soakers at them over her mother’s shoulders, froze. “Benny?”

“Yes’m,” he said. 

Claire lowered both weapons. “It’s okay, Mom. They’re friends.”

Amelia turned to her, shocked. “But the woman – her face –”

Amelia Novak reacted to Meg the same way Emmanuel had. She could see demon faces. Interesting. Meg peeked out from behind Benny, hands still raised in surrender. “You know how some angels are total douchebags? Some demons are nice.”

“You could have called,” Claire said.

“I called when we were a couple of hours out,” Meg said. “It’s been a couple of hours.”

Claire’s mouth was pursed in a tight frown. “Really, Mom. It’s okay. I’ll let them in.” She herded Amelia back into the house, knelt and cast aside the devil’s trap rug so Meg could have safe passage down the poky hall.

“Who are they?” Amelia demanded.

“Colleagues,” Claire said.

“From school?” Amelia sounded bewildered.

“From hunting,” Claire said shortly. She stepped past her mom and headed back to her room. Meg followed. Benny tipped his cap at Amelia, then scrambled to catch up. Amelia was left standing beside the linen closet, clutching a spray bottle of holy water, her world upended. She looked pale, sickly, afraid.

Claire let them into her room, nudged the door shut with her hip. “So. You got it?”

“All of it,” Meg said. She unzipped her backpack and laid the fruits of her quest on the desk: a wooden box still damp and earthy from a forest in Broceliande, a jar of rose water with a tongue floating inside of it, and several vials full of black, tar-like demon ichor. “What next?”

“Thank you,” Claire said. She looked first at Meg, then at Benny. “I’m glad you made it safe.”

“Will your mother be all right?” Benny asked, glancing at the door.

“She will be soon.” Claire turned and knelt, pushed aside her desk chair. She peeled back the plastic chair mat and pressed very carefully on the carpet. A panel swung upward. Claire had made her own secret crawlspace. Inside of it was a thumb drive, a battered denim zippered Bible case, and an antique leather-bound codex. She fished out the codex and then closed the crawlspace, replaced the plastic mat. 

“What next?” Meg asked again.

Claire stood up. “We find Castiel.”

“We?” Meg echoed.

Claire shoved the codex into an olive canvas army surplus satchel. Her hunting supplies. “I’m coming with you.”

“What about your mother and school?” Benny asked.

Claire snatched up the spell ingredients and tucked them into her satchel as well. “I’m coming with you.” She met Meg’s gaze and held it, unyielding.

Meg studied her. “Fine,” she said. “Where are we going?”

“Meg,” Benny said, turning to her for support in his objection to Claire’s accompanying them.

Meg turned to him. “This is Claire’s quest. She’s Guinevere, we’re Percy and Gawaine. We do what we do on her behalf. If she wants to come, who are we to say no?”

“I thought, after Merlin, we were done with Arthurian allusions.” Benny frowned.

“If the shoe fits and all that,” Meg said. She lifted her chin at Claire. “Where are we going?”

Claire fished her phone out of her pocket, fired off a call.

Benny and Meg exchanged resigned looks and waited.

“Hey, Tracy, it’s Nova,” Claire said. “I need a pretty huge favor from you. Like a translation of the _Songs of Israfel_ huge. I know, that’s pretty huge. I need you to call Sam Winchester for me. I don’t have his phone number. Tell him that Claire Novak wants to meet him. Yeah. Claire Novak in the flesh. I do know her. What can I say? Friends in strange places and what have you. Awesome. Send me coordinates.” And Claire hung up.

“Nova?” Meg echoed.

“No need to tell hunters who I really am,” Claire said. “I’ve made good trade with the hunters as Nova and good trade with the fans as Clairestiel.”

“And the new prophet?” Meg asked.

Claire smiled sweetly, screw-you-very-much written into every curve of her lips and every gleam of her pearly white teeth. “Not happening.”

There was a knock at the door.

Claire straightened up. “Yes?”

“Would your friends like some snacks?” Amelia’s voice wobbled only faintly.

Claire glanced at Meg and Benny, raised her eyebrows.

“No, but thank you, ma’am,” Benny said.

“Okay. Just let me know if you change your mind.”Amelia’s footsteps retreated. How had Meg missed them?

“By the way,” Claire said, “you two caused quite the riot at the convention. Fans can’t decide if it wasn’t some kind of crazy LARPing stunt or if you and Benny were sociopaths who crashed the party. Abby fell off the grid, by the way. Damian and Barnes still haven’t figured out how much money she made on my behalf or how to send it to me, especially since I had to rent out a couple more PO boxes and leave forwarding addresses in them to counteract Abby the demon’s tracing efforts.”

“We got the job done,” Meg said.

“You scared the hell out of Becky.”

Meg shrugged. “Becky needed a little hell scared into her, frankly.”

Before Benny could join in with chastising Meg, Claire’s phone chirped. Her face lit up. She turned the phone around so Meg could see. “You know where this is?”

“Lebanon, Kansas,” Meg said. She slewed a glance at Benny. “You were so close to finding Dean. Closer than you knew. I can teleport us all in Trusty if you like.” She nodded to Claire.

“According to Tracy, Sam and Dean will be there in the next twenty minutes.”

“Excellent,” Meg said. “Does your mom have any cookies?”


	26. Chapter 26

Meg landed the car a few blocks away from their designated meeting spot. Since it was daylight, Benny had been ordered into the back seat to hunker beneath a blanket and slather yet more sunblock on himself. Claire rode shotgun, her hunting pack clutched to her chest like a shield. Meg wove through the streets and out onto a rural dirt road amid a patch of forest. She cut the engine but left the radio playing some Norah Jones.

“Seriously?” Claire asked. “No Midian or Slayer?”

“I’m a demon, not a goth wannabe,” Meg said. “But this isn’t for me. It’s for Benny.”

Claire arched an eyebrow in perfect imitation of Meg. “Of course it is.”

They only had to wait for two minutes before the Impala rolled up, sleek and black and gleaming. Dean climbed out of the driver’s side, and Sam unfolded himself from the passenger side.

Meg stepped out of the car first. “Hello, boys.”

They were both aiming guns at her in an instant.

“Meg,” Dean said. “Back from the dead? Didn’t think that was an option for demons.”

“Like you’ve never done it,” she said.

“Tracy said Claire Novak wanted to meet us,” Sam said, stepping in before childish unpleasantries could be exchanged. “Where is she?”

Claire hopped out of the car.

Dean blinked. “Claire? Claire Novak?” He looked confused.

“It’s been a few years,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’ve grown.”

“You look –” Dean fumbled for words.

Sam pressed his lips into a thin line, disapproving. “You look like a hunter.”

“Not a hunter,” Claire said flatly, “but living practically.”

Dean collected himself, drew tatters of his old bravado over him. “You wanted to meet. What’s up?”

“I need to find Castiel,” Claire said.

Sam and Dean exchanged looks.

“Is that a good idea?” Sam asked.

“Last I heard, he’d lost his grace and was roaming the wastelands as a human. Or rather, he’d stolen someone else’s grace temporarily. It’s probably run out by now,” Claire said.

  
Dean raised his eyebrows, turned to Sam.

Sam coughed unsubtly. “Actually, Castiel has been re-graced. For now.”

“With his own grace?” Claire asked.

Sam shook his head. 

“Then call him, please,” Claire said.

“If he’s been re-graced, we could just pray to him,” Meg said.

Dean pierced her with a sharp look. “He may not answer. He’s been picky about that lately.”

Claire looked at Sam. “You have his phone number, right?”

Sam started to reach for his cell phone, but Dean held a hand out, stopping him.

“No offense,” he said, “but Meg is dead, and you...how do we know you are who you say you are?”

“Everyone who ever looks at Claire Novak knows,” Meg said. “She’s Jimmy Novak’s daughter. Are your eyes working?”

Dean looked chagrined for a moment, flicking a glance at Claire.

“How do we know you’re really Meg?” Sam asked, straightening up. So he was backing his brother’s play.

“You continue to wound me,” she said. “I help you end King Dick, and you let me rot in Crowley’s clutches for a year without bothering to look for me, let alone your own brother. Then I take an angel blade to the chest for the team so you could get the angel tablet, and when I finally claw my way out of Purgatory, you treat me like a pariah? Remember, demons aren’t second-class citizens.”

Sam flinched; Meg had taken a shot below the belt by reminding him of his time with Amelia. That boy really needed to learn to assert himself and stand up for his own self-care.

“Purgatory?” Dean echoed. “That isn’t where demons go when they die.”

Meg arched an eyebrow. “How do you know where demons go when they die?”

Dean had no answer, but his stubborn expression remained.

“I need to talk to Castiel,” Claire said. Her grip on her pack was white-knuckled.

“For all we know,” Dean said, “you’re both demons, and you’re here to end Castiel. Why the hell would we help you?”

Sam said, “Christo.”

Meg flinched. Claire rolled her eyes.

Sam and Dean exchanged looks again. They hadn’t lowered their guns.

“Looks like we’re at an impasse.” Meg crossed her arms over her chest. “We want Castiel. You won’t give him up.”

“Not an impasse,” Dean said. “We can still shoot you both.”

Meg scoffed. “Like you’d shoot an innocent teenage girl.”

Dean looked Claire up and down again. “Well, we’re all inside a giant devil’s trap. Your demonic powers don’t work in here.”

Meg waggled her fingers at him. “You really have the memory of a goldfish, don’t you, Squirrel? You remember the last time you boys got me in a devil’s trap? I was riding Sammy at the time. Wasn’t as effective as you thought it would be, was it?”

Sam flinched.

A muscle in Dean’s jaw twitched.

“We don’t want to hurt Cas,” Claire said. “We want to help him.” She turned to Meg. “Play your card already.”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Card?”

“Something to sweeten the deal,” Meg said. She called over her shoulder, “Batter up!”

Benny stepped out of the car, shook out his limbs, popped his collar. “Don’t objectify me,” he said, amused. “I might be sweet, but I sure as hell ain’t ‘something’.”

Dean’s gun wavered. “Benny?”

“In the flesh, thanks to Dark Thorny over here,” he said.

A muscle in Sam’s jaw twitched. He lowered his gun a fraction.

“Claire got us out of the slammer, actually,” Benny said. “We’ve been helping her gather ingredients for a spell. A spell to help Castiel.”

“What kind of spell?” Sam asked. “Where did you find it?”

“In a spellbook,” Claire said. “And a spell to restore his grace. His true grace.”

Dean frowned. “His grace was all used up slamming the pearly gates and turning angels into kamikazes. Crowley said the spell was irreversible, and the angel tablet is useless without a prophet. Pretty sure the angels wouldn’t have given it to us anyway.”

Meg glanced at Claire; she didn’t even twitch at the inaccurate mention of the world’s lack of a prophet.

“Yeah, like Crowley’s so trustworthy,” Meg said flatly. “Besides, we’re not trying to reverse Metatron’s spell. We’re doing another spell entirely.”

“C’mon now,” Benny drawled, draping an arm around Meg’s shoulders. “Don’t make all my hard work for nothin’.”

Dean looked from Benny to Meg in disbelief. “You two?”

“Fought our way through Purgatory together,” Benny said. “Went through an awful lot of bother to help Miss Claire with her spell. Now, are you going to help us or not?”

Dean and Sam locked gazes. Dean raised his eyebrows. Sam shrugged, nodded.

“Fine,” Dean said. He holstered his gun, shook out his limbs. Then he clasped his hands and bowed his head. “Castiel, who art somewhere, maybe in Heaven, can you beam down so we can talk to you?”

There was a sound like the beating of mighty wings.

Castiel stood before them, dressed as he had been the first time Meg met him – rumpled tan overcoat, loosened tie, messy dark hair. Blue, blue eyes.

“Cas!” Claire lunged at him and threw her arms around him.

Benny reached out instinctively to try to drag her back, but Meg stopped him, shook her head.

Castiel staggered from the sudden impact of teenage girl, but then he curled his arms around her, ducked his chin down to her shoulder.

“Claire,” he said. “I’ve missed your prayers.”

“I thought you were dead,” she said. “After I saw you, when you were God – I thought you were dead. Like Dad.” Her voice trembled.

Castiel glanced over his shoulder at Dean, who mimed patting someone on the head. Castiel patted Claire’s hair cautiously.

“By the time I found out you survived, you’d lost your grace, and I knew you couldn’t hear my prayers, and I didn’t know how to find you.” Claire’s voice was choked.

Sam said, “How did you find out he’d survived?”

Claire stepped back, gazed into Castiel’s face. “I read about it, obviously. In the Winchester Gospels.”

Dean shook his head. “Chuck stopped writing years ago.” 

“Chuck wasn’t the only prophet,” Claire said.

“Kevin just translated tablets.”

Meg smirked. “And wrote new chapters in the Gospels while Sam was playing house with Amelia and Dean was playing house with Benny.”

Sam bit his lip. “When was the last time Kevin wrote?”

“The day he died, obviously,” Castiel said.

Dean went white.

Meg said, “This reunion has been touching and all, but I can only be nice for so long. Can we finish up with the niceness so I can go back to making muffins out of babies?”

“Meg,” Castiel said. 

“Heya, Clarence.” 

He stepped around Claire, caught Meg by the elbows, and dragged her in for a kiss. It was a good kiss. Had the sneaky bastard been practicing since she saw him last?

“Hot damn,” Dean said. “Now _I_ feel dirty.”

Meg stepped back, feeling a little dazed, and then she smirked at Sam and Dean, who both looked highly uncomfortable. Meg grinned at Castiel. “I think you owe me a pizza, angel.”

“Right! So, a spell?” Dean broke in, rubbing his hands together eagerly.

Claire opened her pack and knelt, placed a silver bowl on the ground. “The spell will reverse one action of a single archangel,” she said.

“All the archangels are dead,” Castiel said. “Michael, Gabriel, Raphael.”

“Metatron was made an archangel,” Meg said. “Remember the first time Kevin fired up one of those tablets? It was signed by Metatron, the archangel.”

“He wasn’t an archangel in creation. He had no archangel power.” Castiel frowned, confused.

“The spell doesn’t care,” Claire said. “He officially ranks as an archangel, and we can reverse one thing he did. The question is, do you want me to preserve your memories of this timeline with a spell?”

“Timeline?” Sam echoed. He started to raise his gun. “What are you doing?”

“I am going to reverse a single action of Metatron’s,” Claire said. “I am going to reverse his taking of Castiel’s grace.”

“Whoa,” Dean said. “Who knows what you’ll mess up?”

“Not a lot, I don’t think.” Claire laid the ingredients on the ground beside the bowl.

Dean spluttered. “You don’t think? Kid, you’re crazy.”

“Do you want me to perform the spell or not?” Claire asked.

Dean crossed the space between their two cars and caught her wrist. “Who the hell are you to do this?”

Claire snatched her wrist free. “Who the hell are _you?_ ” she shot back. “You decided you had the right to help power a spell you knew nothing about, and the angels fell from Heaven. You decided you had the right to let an angel soul-rape your brother. In doing so you gave Metatron his right-hand man. Metatron’s right-hand man killed Kevin. So who are you to judge my decision to save the people who _I_ love?”

Dean recoiled like he’d been slapped. He cast a look at Sam, questioning and pleading. Was that how Sam felt? Was that how Sam saw his choices?

“So I’m going to ask one last time,” Claire said, slowly, patiently, “do you want your memories of this timeline preserved or not?”

“Will it make us crazy?” Sam asked. “Will we have two sets of memories?”

“No clue.” Claire reached for the wooden box.

“I’d rather remember,” Sam said. “Dean?”

He hemmed.

“At least I’m giving you a choice,” Claire said.

Dean’s brow furrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Claire arched an eyebrow. “Lisa Braeden.”

Dean flinched.

“That level of cruelty is unnecessary,” Castiel said.

“You’re dying,” Meg said. “I know it. You know it. Claire knows it. I’m guessing you’ve kept Moose and Squirrel in the dark about it. These two hemming and hawing like fishwives arguing over plaice isn’t helping save you.”

Sam slewed Castiel a furrowed-brow look. “Cas? You said you were fine.”

Castiel ducked his head, looking shifty.

Claire flipped open her leather-bound book and began chanting in surprisingly fluent Enochian. Meg was impressed. Castiel was impressed. Sam looked alarmed.

Claire paused in her chanting, held out a hand. “Hairs. From each of you. Now.”

Meg obeyed. Benny and Castiel and Sam did as well. Dean was still hesitant. Sam reached out, plucked a hair off of Dean’s head, and placed it on Claire’s outstretched hand with the others.

Claire finished chanting, and then dropped the hairs into the silver bowl. Immediately their hairs began smoking. Ah, the scent of burning hair. So nostalgic.

“I don’t feel any different,” Sam said.

“You will in just a moment.” Claire opened the wooden box. Merlin’s heart gleamed, looking as fresh as the day it had been pulled out of his chest.

“You know,” Meg said, sliding up to Castiel. “I went through a lot to get these spell ingredients for you. I killed Merlin for you. I pretended to be married to Benny for you, and he made me be nice. And, worst of all, I _LARPed_ for you. So you better appreciate having your grace back, Clarence. I expect a whole lot of pizza, and a whole lot of moving furniture, if you know what I mean.”

Castiel nodded. “Of course. Lots of pizza. Except, when the pizza man brings the pizzas, he doesn’t get to spank you. Just me.”

Meg winked at him. “Anything you say, Clarence.”

Dean choked.

Claire levered the heart into the bowl, then fished the jar of rosewater out of her pack. She dumped the rosewater out, then shook the tongue into the bowl. It landed with a squelch. Sam and Dean made faces.

“What _is_ that?” Sam asked.

“A succubus kiss,” Claire said.

Dean leered at Benny. “You kissed a demon, huh?”

“Not me,” Benny said, smirking and lifting his chin in Meg’s direction. 

Dean’s leer faded. “Oh. Well, that’s not nearly as entertaining.”

“I didn’t kiss the succubus either,” Meg said. “I just cut out its tongue.”

“Heart of a cambion, kiss of a succubus, and...some kind of demonic essence,” Castiel said slowly, realization dawning. 

“Demon ichor.” Claire emptied the contents of one of the vials into the bowl. 

“How did you get that?” Sam asked. 

“It’s the opposite of the spell we did,” Castiel said quietly to Dean. “Heart of a nephilim, Cupid’s bow, and angel grace.”

“Trade secrets,” Meg said to Sam.

Claire began chanting in Enochian once more.

A sound like the thrumming and static of an impending archangel filled the air around them. The ground trembled.

“Claire,” Dean said, “what are you doing?”

“It’s just the spell,” Benny said. “Everything’s fine.”

Dean caught his gaze, held it, and something unspoken passed between them.

Sam pulled a bitchface.

“Trust me, brother,” Benny said. “I trusted you. In a big way.”

Castiel reached out and curled his fingers around Meg’s. “Thank you,” he said, “for –”

The sound built and built and built, thrumming faster and higher pitched until Meg felt a trickle of blood spill from both ears.

The world went red.

Meg came back to herself, blinking. She didn’t feel different. Not one bit. She was still holding Castiel’s hand. She had spent a year and a half in Purgatory with Benny and then come topside to...

Oh. 

Oh. She’d come topside to help Castiel, Claire, Sam, and Benny track down demon!Dean and cure him.

But she’d come topside to help Claire restore Castiel’s grace because Castiel’s grace had been stolen.

No. Not stolen. Metatron had stolen Gadreel’s grace, and the angels had been booted out of Heaven, and Dean ended up cutting a deal with an angel named Hannah to help heal Sam from the after-effects of the trial. Meg knew that all because she’d read the books.

All the books.

Written by Kevin Tran. Who was standing beside Sam, Dean, and a woman Meg knew was Hannah the angel, looking confused.

“Guys?” Sam asked. “Is everything all right?”

Sam straightened up, blinked. Then he turned and yanked Kevin into a crushing hug.

Kevin flailed. “Whoa! Wait! What...?”

Dean reached out, ruffled Kevin’s hair. “Good to see you, little guy.”

Kevin glared at him. “Yeah, that wasn’t at all condescending. Also, you see me every day. Weirdo. So Claire, what’s the big news? You said Meg and Benny found something while they were out on the road?”

Benny blinked, dazed.

“Make it quick,” Kevin said, squirming free from Sam. “Mom’s making honey barbecue pork tonight, and Charlie’s coming over so we can play D&D.”

Claire ignored him, turned to Castiel. “Please,” she said. “My mother.”

“Of course,” Castiel said. “We keep our promises.” And he blinked away. A moment later, he blinked back, curling his fingers through Meg’s.

Claire’s cellphone rang. She answered it. “Hey, Mom,” she said. “Nope. Everything’s fine. I didn’t mean to send Castiel in so suddenly like that – I know how you hate that. But remember, the last time he dropped in, he cured you, so...yeah. I love you too, Mom. Mrs. Tran will feed me. I’ll be back in time for classes tomorrow. Meg or Castiel will bring me. Okay. Bye.” She blinked, startled. “That was...weird.”

Hannah peered at Castiel. “Are you all right, sir?”

“Just fine,” he said. 

“Weird doesn’t really cover it,” Benny said. 

“You’re all acting like you just got high. Together,” Kevin said flatly.

“You said you had news.” Hannah lifted her chin, looked down her nose at Meg.

“Right! News. We think someone is trying to restart the apocalypse.” Meg grinned when Sam, Dean, Hannah, and Kevin all looked horrified.

Hannah cast Castiel a pleading look. “But Joshua would never –”

“We killed Merlin the cambion,” Meg said, “but we got wind of succubi trained by Ava –”

Sam started.

“Yes, that Ava,” Meg continued, “trying to harvest pure maternal energy to make a new Antichrist since Jesse Turner didn’t work out so well.”

“But – the seals!” Hannah said.

“There is more than one type of first demon for a final seal,” Meg said, “and they took Bobby Singer to Hell for a reason. Better find out if any of the other righteous hunter types were taken downstairs unlawfully. Scan Heaven and all that. First seals can be made, too. After all, that’s what they did last time.”

Hannah looked shell-shocked.

Kevin grimaced. “I was worried that taking out Merlin would just make things worse.”

“But if Michael and Lucifer get out of the cage, they have no one to walk in,” Dean said. “Sammy sure as hell ain’t saying yes again, and I will never say yes to that prick.”

“They don’t need you,” Meg said. She reached into her backpack and drew out a vial, one marked “Abby”. “Demons have found a way of cloning a human vessel – sort of the way Castiel got a remake of Jimmy Novak’s vessel even after Jimmy died.”

Sam swore.

“Does Crowley know about this, do you think?” Benny asked. He was still blinking muzzily, but they were in a new timeline now, a new world.

Meg had memories of a fun-filled pizza night after she and Benny first emerged from Purgatory. She felt a little cheated, because they were just memories, and in a sense they were false ones. She shook her head. “No, this isn’t Crowley at all. This is some of Azazel’s old guard – Jake and Ava and Max and others of his Special Kids stepping up and rebooting Daddy’s plan.”

“So...what now?” Sam asked.

“I’ll take Claire home so she can make it to her morning class on time,” Meg said, “and then Benny and I need to hit the road, see about a demon making cloned bodies. When Charlie arrives, she can set up a phone conference for all of us so we can brainstorm.”

“So soon?” Kevin asked. “You guys just got here.” He cast Claire a wistful look.

Dean kicked him in the ankle.

Meg started to reach for her keys, but then the vial began to fill with black smoke. “Ah. Abby tried to smoke out. I can restore her to a body and interrogate her in your really awesome dungeon. After some of Mrs. Tran’s famous barbecue honey pork, of course.” She reached out, grabbed Castiel by the tie, and tugged him close. “Hannah, take Claire home. I think Castiel and I need a little time to move some furniture. Benny, make nice with Sam.”

Benny grinned toothily. “I always make nice with Sam.” He snatched the keys from Meg. “I’m going.”

Meg drew Castiel into a kiss, and Dean, Sam, and Kevin all groaned. Hannah made a disapproving sound, and she and Claire vanished. Meg smiled against Castiel’s lips and said, “Beam us back to your room, Clarence.”

“Anything you say.”


End file.
